


Gravitational Pull

by Mice



Series: Binary Star [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, BAMF Sally Donovan, Happy Ending, M/M, Slow Burn, character death NOT greg or mycroft, everyone knows her name isn't anthea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 32,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22861546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: Greg and Mycroft have settled comfortably into their soulbond. Greg thinks he wants more than just this friendship, but he has no idea what that might look like.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Binary Star [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640599
Comments: 449
Kudos: 339





	1. Not His Guardian Angel

**Author's Note:**

> As with the previous story in this series, this is catch-as-catch-can. I'll be in hospital in March and the fic will be taking a hiatus for probably at least a month during that time. Your patience is appreciated.
> 
> ETA: The date of my hospital stay has been changed and I don't know exactly when it will be as yet. I was told it should be rescheduled by the end of March.

"Looks like that Watson bloke is going to stick, doesn't it?" Greg said, sipping his coffee as Mycroft nibbled on a croissant at their usual cafe. 

Mycroft nodded and brushed away the crumbs on his lips before responding. "I believed he might, but one can never be certain. The first time that body parts show up in the microwave is a definite crisis point in Sherlock's relationships."

"Eyeballs, it was," Greg said. "Sally was a bit weirded out about it. Can't blame her, really. Opening the thing and being stared at, gotta be disconcerting."

"Many things about my brother are disconcerting," Mycroft said, smiling.

Greg nodded. "True, that. I'm finding Watson a bit disconcerting, too, really. Pretty sure he's the one who shot the cabbie. Frankly, though, I'm not all that interested in following up. Whoever our shooter was, they were defending Sherlock. If I had more than a vague suspicion, I'd have to go after him. It probably wouldn't be the best idea. Your brother needs a bloody guardian angel sometimes, and no matter how much you've been trying to fill that vacancy, it's best it not be you."

"He's surprisingly eager to please the doctor; Sherlock preens for him, he shows off far more deliberately and with less acrimony than he does around others." Mycroft sipped at his espresso.

Greg's brow wrinkled. "You don't think they're soulmates, do you? I mean the odds of two brothers both having them is pretty much nil, but you never know." He wondered if a soulmate might help Sherlock, much like Greg himself had been influencing Mycroft.

Mycroft's soft snort and the look on his face gave Greg his answer. "Do you really think he'd not have immediately announced it to the entire planet?"

Greg shrugged. "I'm thinking he's been sarcastic to the point of insulting about our bond sometimes, so maybe he'd have been angry that it happened to him, too."

"That sarcasm, I suspect, is more jealousy than anything else. He craves connection with others but has no idea how to achieve this goal without betraying his own belief that he cannot properly analyze anything if emotion clouds his judgment. 

"I fear I must take some responsibility for the whole thing, in that I had embraced our Uncle Rudy's insistence that emotional connections were an active impediment to the exercise of logic and deduction." Greg's eyebrow raised at that, but Mycroft continued. "You know the kind of work I do. Some analysis must be done with as little emotional involvement as possible. Yet you've shown me that in one's personal life, an emotional connection is essential. Sherlock sees this, and subconsciously understands it, but our longstanding interpersonal difficulties leave him unable to gracefully accept my change of heart. It leaves him resistant to the idea of forming his own connections, with or without a soulbond. He mocks what makes him uncomfortable."

The more Greg thought about it, the more he could see Mycroft's point. Maybe Sherlock _was_ actually jealous of them. It made a perverted sort of sense. "I'm just… I'm really glad it did happen for us. You were pretty much all that was holding me together for a while after I split with Karen. You've been…" He sighed. "You're amazing," he murmured. Greg met Mycroft's blue-grey eyes, after all this time still managing to feel all soft when he saw the gentle light around him. He felt so close to the man, so fond, and he basked in the slight, shy smile Mycroft offered him.

"You… make me wish to be a better man, Gregory. And if I can change, it gives me at least some reason to hold out hope for my brother."


	2. Psycho-Spiritual Mumbo-Jumbo

"What more do you have regarding my brother's recent near-death experience?" Mycroft asked.

Andrea consulted her notes. "Not a great deal. Allow me to get the file, sir."

Mycroft nodded and gestured her away, turning his attention to the stack of documents on his desk while his PA returned to her own office. He'd managed to deal with a couple of files in the time it took her to get the information and return. The folder in her hand was disappointingly slim.

"This is all we have?" he asked, taking the information from her. "I'm surrounded by incompetents." He glowered at the folder.

"I can see about reassigning some more senior people to the task, but this is what we were given," she answered.

"I'll have a look at this. Please bring me another pot of tea. We can discuss it further once I've given this pathetic report some consideration."

There was information on the cab driver, of course, and his unfortunate family. All very standard and disappointing with the exception of one name, one tenuous contact.

Moriarty.

Just a surname. Possibly a code name. No photo, nothing solid. But there were rumours. Whoever this Moriarty was, their presence was silent, a spider at the center of a web. Mycroft had seen ripples of this entity before. Drugs. Arms. Human trafficking. Forgery. The name was no more than a whisper, uttered with dread.

Whatever was coming -- and something was definitely coming, Mycroft could feel it -- it was dire. He'd have to consult Sherlock. He hoped he would not have to consult the other one. 

Mycroft picked up his phone and rang Sherlock who, of course, did not answer. No matter. Sherlock's curiosity would net him a text within the hour. He set the folder aside and went back to his other, higher-priority projects while he waited.

Sherlock sauntered into his office three hours later, his face a mask of vague annoyance. "What's so important that you needed to interrupt my experiments? My mold growth is at a critical stage."

Mycroft picked up the folder from his stack and dropped it on the far side of his desk in front of his brother. "It seems our interests are currently intersecting."

With an eyeroll, Sherlock picked up the folder and looked inside. His eyes narrowed as he skimmed the sparse information, then he looked up at Mycroft. "What do you know?"

"This is much larger than your serial suicides, brother mine."

Sherlock nodded. "There's not much here. Your people need to step up their game."

"A new team is being assigned as we speak." Mycroft leaned back in his chair. "That said, I would ask you to watch your back, Sherlock. Guard those closest to you. Be aware of where they are at all times."

Sherlock snorted. He waved Mycroft's words away with one hand. "I always know where John is."

"Strange," Mycroft said. "When I was at your flat just yesterday, you were wondering why he hadn't handed you your phone. It turned out that he'd gone to the shop for milk and you'd been shouting into an empty space for at least twenty minutes."

"He can take care of himself," Sherlock grumbled.

"Of that, I have no doubt. I'm less sanguine about Mrs. Hudson or Doctor Hooper. _Watch them_ , Sherlock."

"You'll be watching Lestrade, then?" Sherlock smirked.

"He's already under protection. I'm planning to increase his security." The idea of harm coming to Gregory sent chills through Mycroft, but he didn't visibly react.

Sherlock shook his head. "He'll never let you. I've seen your people already. They're not particularly adept at avoiding notice."

"They've been told to keep a distance so as not to interfere with his work." Sherlock was better at spotting security than many other people, but Mycroft intended to have words with Greg's team about acting with greater caution.

"And how, exactly, do you plan on leashing him with close protection, if that's the case? He won't like it. And you won't give him a choice. You never give anyone a choice." Sherlock glared at him.

"I have plans," Mycroft assured him. "I'm not going to leave my soulmate vulnerable."

Sherlock tossed the file back onto Mycroft's desk. "You didn't need to call me here for any of this. Why am I here?"

"Because, dear brother, we will need to set aside our animosities and work together to find this Moriarty. We each have different resources and therefore access to different information."

Sherlock looked at him, pensive. "And why would I cooperate with you?"

"To keep John and your other friends safe. Anything that touches upon you can ultimately be used to get to me, and I have no intention of allowing a security breach. Your safety is mine, little brother, but I suspect that if you are amenable, we should not show our hand by appearing to work too closely together."

"You think everything is about you," Sherlock spat.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. A person or organization with the power and reach of this Moriarty would inevitably have an interest in the British security services. Sherlock, however, would not likely be persuaded that it was anything but Mycroft's ego involved, naturally. "Believe what you wish, Sherlock. My concern is for you and yours, and for Gregory."

"Who?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, stepping hard on his annoyance. "Lestrade, Sherlock. My soulmate. Learn his name, it is an important detail."

"Your soulmate," Sherlock growled. He gestured broadly with one arm. "You're so pleased with yourself over having a soulmate, given that you've never been able to form a connection with another human being before you met him. Well, it turns out that I managed to find a most excellent and suitable friend without the need for that sort of psycho-spiritual mumbo-jumbo. No disco lights necessary."

Mycroft buried his face in both hands for a moment, wishing Sherlock's continuing jealousy was a surprise. He looked up at his brother over steepled fingers. "You mean like ninety-seven point four percent of the global population? Yes, Sherlock, you're _very_ special. Your implication that I'm far too emotionally damaged to have a friend without the 'disco lights' is unsurprising, but do you really believe that of Lestrade? That our dear Detective Inspector, a friendly, capable, understanding human being, would be unable to form a meaningful emotional bond without having a soulmate?" He glared at his brother. "Do consider your answer carefully before uttering it."

The surprise on Sherlock's face was rather amusing. "That is _not_ what I meant. He's entirely adequate. He has a number of friends. He's rather good at it."

"Work with me, Sherlock. Let us try to keep all of them safe. This will go much better with your help than without it. If you won't give me an answer right now, at least consider it. Please."

Sherlock rose and stalked from the room. Mycroft took a few moments to collect himself and went back to his work.


	3. Close Protection

Andrea escorted an extremely irritated Sergeant Donovan into Mycroft's office early that afternoon.

"Who are you and what the hell am I doing here?" she snapped, arms crossed over her chest. She glared at Mycroft, her dark eyes blazing.

"Please, Sergeant, have a seat." Mycroft gestured to the chair before his desk. "May I offer you some tea?"

She remained standing, glaring at him. "Not until you explain what's going on."

"I've brought you here to ask for your aid."

Her eyebrows lowered, her face the picture of alert but unsettled confusion. "A man like you, wanting my help? Yeah, right."

"Please," he said, gesturing toward the seat again. "We'll both be more comfortable if you sit. I promise that you shall have your explanations."

Reluctant, she settled herself in, not taking her eyes off Mycroft. She accepted the teacup he brought to her but didn't drink anything before he'd sipped from his own. He could appreciate her caution. "I would like to request your secondment to MI5 regarding a matter of security internal to the Metropolitan Police."

"What?" She set the cup down on the desk before her. "Nobody at the Met's said anything to me."

"No one at the Met is aware of the situation. Due to the nature of the problem, it's unlikely that they will ever be informed."

She leaned back into her chair but did not relax. "Talk."

"There is a developing situation around Sherlock Holmes that places him and his close associates at risk." At the mention of Sherlock's name, her face twisted with displeasure, but she continued listening. "Among those at risk is your superior, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Shit," she whispered. "Greg's in trouble?" Her manner eased, not relaxed but now actually listening with attention and an underlying tension and distress.

Mycroft nodded. "He has been under protection for some time now due to other concerns but, after the case of the serial suicides, further information came to light. He now requires close protection, but I do not wish to embed one of my people into his team. It would be disruptive, and the sudden change would call attention to him and alert the threat to our awareness. It seemed a far better choice to approach a trusted member of his own division regarding this matter."

Her head tilted and she narrowed her eyes. "Close protection? You want me to, what, be his bodyguard at work?"

"In essence, yes." Mycroft drank his tea while she considered. 

"What's this got to do with the freak, and why is Greg in trouble? Who the hell _are_ you?"

Mycroft drew himself up in his chair and glared down his nose at her. "My name is Mycroft Holmes. 'The freak,' as you call him, is my brother. And Detective Inspector Lestrade… Gregory…" he hesitated and continued more quietly. "Gregory is my soulmate. Their safety is of great concern to me."

Donovan's mouth dropped open. "Soulmate? What? He's never said he had a soulmate."

Mycroft gestured around himself, taking in his office, implying the importance of the situation from the setting. "That silence has been for his safety. Will you help me? Will you help _him_?"

"This is for real? You want me working for MI5 covering my boss while he's at work? What the hell kind of threat is he under? I need details." The sergeant was all business now, sharp as a scalpel and just as bright. It was precisely what Mycroft had hoped to see when he had her brought in.

Mycroft tapped his intercom. "Andrea, please bring the file." He looked back up at Donovan. "There are security concerns, so before I can tell you anything else, you will be required to sign nondisclosure and national security documents. You may discuss this with Gregory in private, but _no one_ else. You will not discuss it with anyone else on your team, or with any higher-ups at the Met without my express permission. Is that clear?"

Donovan nodded as Andrea entered with the file. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, okay. Your brother's a twat, but Greg's a good man. I'll do it for him. You can count on me."


	4. My Bodyguard

Greg looked up as Donovan hurried through the door of his office, looking stressed. He put down his pen. "You got the Bradfield report for me?"

She shook her head. "No, this's got naught to do with work, really."

"Oh, Christ," he grumbled. "Has Grunfeld been at you again over women on the force? I swear to god, I will see him at a disciplinary hearing this time." He started to pull up the necessary paperwork on his computer.

Sally closed his office door behind her. "No. No, Greg. Why did you never tell me you have a soulmate?"

Greg froze for a moment. He took a deep breath and let it out, not sure how he should react. "Ah. So, you met him, then. What did he want?" She dropped into the seat in front of his desk. "Donut?" He pushed the small box at her.

"Yeah, thanks," she said, taking one of the pastries. She took a couple of bites and wiped the sugar from her lips before she spoke again. "You know he's got a security detail on you, right?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah, they've been there for a while. Given what he does, it's necessary. They stay as far back as they can. I don't usually see them. Why? What's happened, and why was he talking to you?"

She looked over her shoulder back through his window, back out onto the floor, then turned back to him. "He said something just came up and he needs you to have a bodyguard while you're at work. Apparently, that's me."

Greg bolted upright in his chair. "What?"

"Yeah. You'd best talk to him soon, because apparently it's something his brother got into with our serial suicide case from a few weeks back." She shifted uncomfortably. "He was scared, guv, and men like him, they're never scared. I told him I'd do it, though. I've been seconded to MI5 for it, but god knows I don't want to see you get hurt. I really don't want to have to break in a new DI; it's a pain in the arse. He said he didn't want to have somebody new jammed sideways into our team and that since you trusted me already, he felt pretty confident you'd be okay with me watching your back and getting paid extra for it."

Greg sighed and eased back into his chair. The idea of Mycroft scared of anything unsettled him. "Kidnapped you, did he?"

She nodded. "It was polite, but yeah, it was a kidnapping. Tall, leggy brunette picked me up in some tank of a saloon car. No threats, but a definite implication that it'd be best if I just came with her without asking questions. I was pretty angry when they brought me into Legoland. Holmes is… Whatever the hell he is, it's bigger than MI5. I know that much. His office wasn't at Thames House, obviously."

"Oh, he's got one there, too, trust me," Greg said, glowering a bit. The conversation he was going to have with Mycroft would definitely call for some strong alcohol when he got off work.

"Jesus. Who _is_ he?" She looked a bit shaken up. "He made me sign a pile of papers like you wouldn't believe before he'd talk to me about this and I'm not to breathe a word to anyone but you or him."

Greg took a deep breath and blew it out. God, he needed a smoke. "Probably nothing like the one I had to sign when we found out about the soulmate thing."

"What, really?"

He chuckled. "Yeah, really. Soulmate or not, he's still a secret squirrel and the fact that he even exists is probably classified to within an inch of his life. I can't tell you anything about it. You understand. I mean, HR knows, they have to, but they've got his cover story, not the real him."

"Is it, like, one of those romantic things? I mean, you were married."

And no, Greg was not even a little ready to come out at work just yet, no matter what he felt about Mycroft right now. "Nah, just friends. Close, but nothing more. He helped me a lot when my marriage blew up, though. I stayed at his place for a couple of weeks until I found a new flat and all."

She nodded. "If it was, you know it wouldn't bother me, right? She was awful to you, and I'd just like to see you happy with somebody for a change."

"You're not setting me up on a blind date, Sal."

Donovan laughed. "God, no, what a disaster that would be, trying to set up my boss."

Greg laughed with her. "Look, I'm a little annoyed with him for not talking to me first, but if it had to be anybody, I'm glad it's you. I am going to have _words_ with that man after I get off work, though."

Sally drew an envelope from her purse. "Oh, yeah, he asked me to give this to you, too. I just wanted to make sure you knew what was going down and that you should talk to him. I need to get back to kicking a couple of constables about some door to door stuff for the Bradfield thing."

"Right then," Greg said, taking the envelope. "Let me know when you've got some progress."

She left and Greg opened the cream coloured envelope. It was heavy, expensive paper. Very Mycroft. He recognized his soulmate's fountain pen ink and careful calligraphy on one side. Tugging the sheet from inside, he read:

_Gregory,_

_I apologize for not consulting you before increasing your security detail. I shall explain all tonight. Please allow me to make it up to you with dinner at my flat. A car will be waiting for you when you leave the office._

_Mycroft_

Greg sighed and shook his head. It was a good thing they were soulmates or he'd be a lot angrier about the not being consulted bit.


	5. Defining 'More'

By the time Greg got to Mycroft's that night, he'd realized that he couldn't stay angry with the man over the whole bodyguard without being consulted thing. Mycroft cared about him. Mycroft wanted him safe, and had taken the least intrusive path to achieving the goal. He greeted his soulmate with a hug once the door to Mycroft's flat was closed.

"Gregory?" Mycroft didn't pull away, but the returned embrace was shy and tentative.

Greg held on, savoring the warmth of Mycroft's arms around him. "Thank you for wanting to keep me safe," he said. "I wish you'd let me know first, but thank you."

Mycroft's arms tightened around Greg's body and he nuzzled at Greg's temple. "Is this what we're doing now? Embraces upon greeting in private?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I think so. If that's okay with you." He felt Mycroft's hands moving gently up to his shoulders in a slow caress.

"I will accept anything you wish to give me," Mycroft murmured. "In public I would be hesitant, but here, behind closed doors… this is a gift."

"What changed, that you needed to put me under close protection like that?" He slowly released Mycroft and they made their way to the library, where they sat together on a sofa, close and hesitant.

"An entity involved with the serial suicides case was discovered today, with potential links to terrorist organizations. This entity is apparently specifically targeting my brother and, therefore, we must assume that anyone closely associated with him is at heightened risk." Mycroft took Greg's hand, threading their fingers together. Greg squeezed, trying to be reassuring, even as he worried.

He nodded again, eyes lowered. It wasn't like he'd never been targeted by people he'd put away for serious crimes. Some of them had links to organized crime or domestic terrorists, and it certainly wasn't unheard of for people like that to target the friends and family of cops who were involved in those cases. He didn't blame Mycroft at all for his caution. "How long do you figure this threat will last, or is there any way to know just yet?"

"We have only a name right now. Moriarty. There are tenuous threads spreading out from it, ripples in the water. They are numerous and far-reaching. Until we know enough to be certain of what's going on, it's best for you to have security in arms' reach." Mycroft hesitated, caressing the back of Greg's hand with his thumb. "I… could not bear to see you harmed."

"And Sherlock knows."

"He knew before I did but hadn't enough information to make certain connections, and therefore did not see fit to inform me. We have… had words. I need his cooperation, but his reluctance to work with me is distressing."

He looked into Mycroft's worried eyes. "You think it would help if I talked to him?"

"I don't know. Perhaps. He is rather more inclined to listen to you than to me at this point." Mycroft reached out slowly and cupped Greg's cheek in one hand. Greg rested his own over it and pressed his cheek into Mycroft's palm. It felt comfortable. It felt right.

"I'll try, then."

Mycroft nodded. "Thank you." Mycroft pulled Greg into a careful hug again and whispered, "I have no wish to lose you."

Greg's chest was tight with emotion and he held Mycroft close, trying to understand the depth of his feelings, to know what they meant, to sort out what he wanted. "I know," he said. "I know. Same here." He shifted and rested his forehead against Mycroft's. "Look, maybe this isn't the right time for this conversation. I'll back off if it's not. But… What do you want from this? From us?"

Mycroft's eyes were closed, and they were still touching, still holding one another. "You said some time ago that you wanted more, but were hesitant to define that term. You should be aware that I am--" he took a stuttering breath "--intensely, physically attracted to you. I know that you are not as yet entirely comfortable with your bisexuality. I understand, theoretically at least, that the process of accepting this can be more difficult as one grows older and more set in one's ways." He pressed a soft kiss to Greg's forehead and took Greg's face in both hands, looking into his eyes, carefully assessing. "I am not very good at expressing emotions. I struggle with this constantly. Yet, I care for you, deeply."

"You… you love me." Greg could hardly make himself say the words. Mycroft just nodded.

"If all you are ever able to give me is your friendship, it will be enough. But my definition of 'more' would include a physical relationship if and when you are comfortable with the concept. I would have you here, in my home. In my bed." His eyes closed again, as though he were afraid to see Greg's reaction to the words. "In my body."

Greg had known, or at least suspected. The words shot through him, intense and visceral -- a strange, intoxicating mix of fear and arousal. "Mycroft," he whispered. "I think… I think I do too, but I'm not sure I'm ready yet." He shifted again, arms tight around his soulmate, clinging to him with something akin to desperation. "I want to be, but I'm not."

Mycroft's voice shook as he spoke, obviously struggling with his emotions. "When you are ready, we will… take our time. Your relative lack of experience in this matter can be, ah, very… pleasurably alleviated."

Greg couldn't help but chuckle at Mycroft's careful phrasing. "I suspect you'd be a really thorough, careful instructor."

"I should very much look forward to it."

In that moment, Greg knew that he would, too.


	6. Passing

When the phone call came, it had been a bit of a shock. Mycroft had been expecting it for years, but the reality of it still stopped him and left him numb. Uncle Rudy had been in an elder care facility for the last five years, slowly deteriorating, but the heart attack had struck without notice. Mummy was naturally very upset and Mycroft had done his best to be the dutiful son.

He'd called Gregory soon after. His soulmate's instinctive response had been, "Is there anything I can do?"

Mycroft surprised himself by asking Gregory to accompany him to the funeral; there had been not even a hint of hesitation before Greg said, "Of course I will."

"We'll be two days with my parents," Mycroft said. "They will, inevitably, have questions as to why you're accompanying me."

"We'll tell them whatever you want," Greg answered. "Anything you need, I'm here."

And so, three days later, Mycroft found himself at his parents' cottage, his soulmate in tow, sunk in a strange and contradictory miasma of emotions. Mummy was still deeply upset, given that Rudy had been her brother. Father, quiet and docile, was doing his best to hold her together, to little avail.

"And who is your friend?" Mummy asked.

"This is my soulmate, Gregory Lestrade, a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. I'm sure Sherlock has mentioned him to you, as they work together from time to time." Mycroft rested a hand in the small of Greg's back, needing connection but not in the least willing to share genuine intimacy in front of his parents.

"Mrs. Holmes," Greg said.

"Your soulmate?" she said. "Why did you never tell me you had a soulmate, Mikey?'

"Mycroft, Mummy, please. You know my name and I would appreciate it if you would use it properly."

Greg kept quiet, just observing, obviously trying to assess the situation without stepping into the family drama. Mycroft had advised him to keep his head down, and he appeared to be quite sensibly following that advice.

"Oh, really," Mummy scoffed. "You've never actually grown up. If you'd matured at all, you'd have told us about your soulmate when it happened, not waited until there was a family tragedy to spring it on us like this. I mean, he seems like a perfectly lovely young man, but you have such a terribly unpleasant habit of secrecy for no reason!"

Mycroft shuffled uncomfortably. "I've come to honor Uncle Rudy, not to participate in a family row, Mummy. Gregory is here now at my request because--"

"Because your son needed a little support, ma'am." Greg moved closer to Mycroft, yet again shielding him with his body, placing himself obliquely between Mycroft and an obvious source of distress. Mycroft could feel the warmth radiating from him. "He's told me about his uncle before and it's only natural that he'd want a friend with him during a time like this. The bond we share, though, it's not really anyone's business but ours. I'm sorry you feel left out, but it's not like I've told many people about it, either."

"Well, you should both have a little more courtesy for your families," Mummy snapped.

"Come on, Violet," Father said. "You know soulbonds are a very personal thing. They're here for Rudy's funeral, that's what counts. Mycroft's always been here when he's needed. He's very responsible."

Mycroft did his best to extract them quickly from the rest of the conversation, not wanting the entire thing to devolve into an argument. Not long afterwards, he and Greg were behind closed doors in the guest room where he usually stayed for holidays.

Mycroft dropped onto the edge of the bed, slumped with his elbows on his knees, and Greg sat next to him, rubbing his back with one hand. "You didn't need to defend me, but I appreciate the fact that you did."

"Is she always like that? Thinks you're still a kid?" Greg's brow was wrinkled with confusion.

Mycroft nodded, sighing. "I'm afraid so. After everything that happened, Sherlock was her darling, and her favored son. He can do no wrong. I, on the other hand, can do nothing but."

"God, I'm sorry. Speaking of your brother, why's he not here? Is he coming tomorrow morning for the service?"

"No," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "Our uncle was never as large a figure in Sherlock's life as in mine. He influenced both of us, but Rudy's influence on Sherlock was passed through me, I'm afraid. Sherlock sees no sense in things like funerals. They're for the living, not the dead, and because he feels no real connection, it is therefore unnecessary in his mind. The fact that it would be a comfort to Mummy is irrelevant."

Greg covered Mycroft's hand with his own, and their fingers twined together. "I'm sorry for your loss, Mycroft. And that your parents don't treat you with the respect you deserve."

Mycroft responded with a shrug. "It's always been this way. As to my loss… his death was long expected. I just… it was more of a shock than I anticipated."

"Mixed feelings?"

"Yes."

Greg freed his hand and wrapped an arm around Mycroft's shoulders. "It's a pretty common response, especially when family stuff has been… complicated."

Mycroft huffed. "'Complicated.' That would certainly be the case. God forbid anything in my family should be simple."

Greg leaned in and pressed a hesitant kiss to Mycroft's cheek. Mycroft turned to look at him, a swirl of conflicting emotions in his chest.

"Gregory?"

The arm around Mycroft's shoulder shifted and Greg gently caressed the spot he'd kissed with the tips of his fingers. "Just… thought you needed it." There was concern and sorrow in his dark eyes and Mycroft wrapped him in his arms, his own eyes overflowing with silent tears. "It's okay," Greg whispered, holding him. "I'm here. You're not alone."

"Why are you so kind to me?" Mycroft choked, his voice rough and thick.

"'Cause you're my soulmate," Greg murmured, "and I love you."

They sat on the edge of Mycroft's bed clinging to each other for a very long time.


	7. Rather More Interested in the Knights

Greg got home late that night, much shakier than he'd been while he and Sherlock interviewed Wenceslas. He'd been covering his anxiety as best he could, which turned out to be not too shabbily. 

Moriarty: the name that had put Mycroft so on edge. And Sherlock's manic gloating that had nearly got a young boy killed. There were already too many dead due to this mad game Sherlock had been sucked into, and Greg was damned near done in. The lad had the bit in his teeth and seemed reluctant to let it go. It was going to lead to no good, Greg could feel it.

He picked up his phone and dialed. Mycroft answered after a couple of rings. "Gregory? Are you all right? It's quite late." He could hear the concern in his soulmate's voice.

"I'm… no. Not really." He took a steadying breath. "Is there… is there any chance I could see you tonight? I just, I need someone to talk to, and I've got something that you'll need to hear. Can't say anything on the phone." God only knew who could be listening. He knew Mycroft always put a bunch of security measures on his phones when he got a new one, but he was never entirely sure what was safe to say and what wasn't.

Mycroft was still for a moment. "I will be there in half an hour. Shall I bring you something to eat?"

"You're a star. Please. Anything." He was too exhausted to decide what he wanted, much less to put in the effort to actually cook.

"Very well." Mycroft rang off and Greg walked over and cracked his lounge window open. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands. When the nicotine hit, some of his shaking subsided. He held in the smoke for a moment, then blew it out the window in a long, slow breath. The stress was doing his current attempt to quit no fucking good whatsoever. Sherlock would know somehow that he'd had a fag, and he'd get mocked mercilessly, he was sure.

Mycroft probably wouldn't be too thrilled either, he thought. Neither of them were very good at quitting smoking. With a defeated sigh, Greg snuffed the thing and pitched it out his window. It wasn't so cold that he couldn't leave the window open for a few to air out the room. He got himself a beer instead and parked himself on the sofa, trying not to let his thoughts keep spinning out of control. His stomach growled at him, roiling unpleasantly. He tried to distract himself with a book, and then the telly, but nothing cut through his restless unease.

Almost exactly a half hour after Greg had called him, Mycroft arrived. Greg rang him through the door on the street and was waiting at his flat door as Mycroft came up the stairs to Greg's second floor walk-up. He had a bag in hand, which he proffered as Greg shut the door behind him.

"I thought you might like fish and chips," Mycroft said.

Greg took the bag from him with a grateful sigh. "It's perfect, ta."

They embraced, and Greg held on for a minute, reluctant to relinquish the comfort of Mycroft's arms. "You've been at the cigarettes again," Mycroft said, a vague hint of disapproval in his voice.

"Rough day."

Greg led Mycroft over to the sofa and they sat together as Greg opened the bag and dug into the food. "Tell me what happened," Mycroft asked, rubbing gently between Greg's shoulders as he ate.

After he'd finished a couple of pieces of fish, Greg wiped the grease from his fingers. "It's these cases with your brother," he said. "Today… he was so damned pleased with himself for solving one of the puzzles this mad fucker has thrown at him that he almost didn't give him the answer until it was too late. Two fucking seconds, Mycroft. Some poor kid who's going to be in therapy for years over this." He sighed and buried his face in his hands. "And I had to hold it together until we'd interviewed Wenceslas about the forgery." Mycroft's hand was still moving, warm, on Greg's back. "She said… she said she'd been in contact with Moriarty."

Mycroft froze. "You're certain."

"Yeah. It was like you said, whispers in the dark. She was terrified. Sherlock just got this smug look on his face. He didn't tell you, did he? Or you'd not have reacted like that just now."

"That's correct. He knows this is important. And I'm beginning to wonder if the case I've got him on isn't somehow connected. This isn't good. I wish I could get him to trust me, to come to me with these things." Mycroft's hand started moving again, slowly curling around toward Greg's side, and Mycroft pulled him close. "I can't protect either of you adequately if he won't help me."

"I'm worried about what comes next. Every time, it escalates. The bomber makes it more personal." Greg kept his eyes closed but let his hands drop to his lap. He leaned into Mycroft, trying to take some comfort from his soulmate's nearness. With a shuddering sigh, he let his head rest on Mycroft's shoulder and Mycroft held him, chin resting on Greg's head.

It felt like warmth and safety and love, and Greg needed it, but didn't know quite what to do with those feelings. "What happens when I can't help him, Mycroft? What happens when we're all in it over our heads?"

"I struggle constantly with those questions. As you've told me so often, we need to try to trust him to make the right decisions. Unfortunately, there are times when he is incapable of doing so, when he's so dazzled by his own cleverness that he's in danger of self-destruction. I always fear that my brother going out in a blaze of glory will take you with him." Mycroft's voice was soft and pained and god, Greg loved him.

He straightened and took Mycroft's free hand, looking into his storm-grey eyes. They were tight with worry and exhaustion. Greg started to ask a question, but hesitated, his mouth opening a couple of times in an attempt to speak.

"This is… not about your brother," Greg said, hesitant, his heart thundering in his chest so hard that he could hear it pounding in his ears. "But I need to talk about it. I need to -- it's time. Because how I feel, it's changing, and I don't have anyone but you that I can ask."

Mycroft nodded. "It's all right. You know I'll listen. Whatever you need, Gregory."

Greg stammered out his question as best he could. "How did -- when did you know that you were…"

"Gay?"

"Yeah." Greg nodded.

Mycroft looked thoughtful for a moment, gazing into the distance. His arm stayed wrapped around Greg, his fingers tracing soft arcs on Greg's side. "Always, I suppose," Mycroft answered. "From quite early. Mummy's storybooks had tales of handsome princes, brave knights, and their rescued princesses; I was conscious of the fact that one was supposed to have an interest in the princesses. I was always rather more interested in the knights, myself." He rested his cheek against Greg's head, speaking softly. "As I grew older, I was less interested in other people at all. They seemed boring and terribly slow to me, unable to understand the simplest things, yet I was still drawn to other boys in an aesthetic sense. Their form appealed much more to me than girls, in whom I had no interest at all."

"Never once," Greg said.

Mycroft shook his head no and continued. "I was much too busy at university to pursue more than the most superficial connections. I had sexual experiences, of course, but I found them less satisfying than a good intellectual debate. Of course, the impending AIDS crisis laid to rest any further interest I might have had, and my interest in the security services under my uncle's aegis led me to a very lengthy period of voluntary celibacy."

"It wasn't legal in the services back then, was it?" Greg asked.

"No. My uncle's influence meant that I was brought in regardless, though I was put through some exceedingly distasteful 'counseling' sessions in a misguided attempt to fix what they thought was wrong with me. I was never able to hide what I was so I saw no point in attempting to do so. The idea that one should have to hide such a thing was ludicrous. One can't be blackmailed with something that is entirely out in the open. I made myself useful with my uncle's backing, and then I made myself indispensable. While I was widely regarded with distaste, both my skills and my behaviour were beyond reproach."

Greg let himself be cradled in the warmth of Mycroft's body, the faded scent of his cologne gentle on Greg's senses. "That's… I'm sorry you went through that."

"It's entirely understandable why you would hide your own proclivities. It would, if anything, be even less acceptable for a man in your position to show any sign of an attraction to other men. Particularly if you had the option of a genuine interest in the fairer sex."

"It wasn't… it never felt entirely right, hiding like that, but I saw what happened to the gay blokes. I didn't know back then that there were even words for what I was. I thought that everyone felt that way but nobody said anything about it." He shivered. "And then there were the ones who acted like the guys who'd play both sides were nothing but a bunch of filthy, diseased animals," he said, disgusted. A wave of ancient, nameless guilt rose and threatened to drown him.

"I've never felt that way," Mycroft told him gently, "though I've certainly heard the attitude often enough. There is nothing wrong with you, Gregory. I know that your ex destroyed your self-confidence, but I hope that our association has, perhaps, restored at least some fraction of it. You are more than worthy of affection. Of consideration. Of pleasure in whatever form that takes."

Greg turned under Mycroft's arm and wrapped himself around his soulmate, his breathing harsh and unsteady as he fought against tears that he desperately didn't want to shed. He choked on his fear and uncertainty.

Mycroft nuzzled Greg's hair. "You are worthy of love, Greg. You are kind and generous and forgiving. You have an immense heart, and I am more grateful than I can possibly express for your presence in my life. I wish… I wish that you would allow me to love you as you deserve."

Greg nodded, pulling himself together as best he could, afraid and hopeful in equal measure. "Please," he said. "I want that. I don't even know how to ask for that, but I want it. Just… god, I don't know if I can come out at work at my age. I don't know what would happen there. Sally'd be okay about it, but the rest? I've seen what happens, Mycroft, I've seen how people who aren't straight get treated, no matter what the regulations say."

"You don't have to come out at work," Mycroft told him. "Not now. Not ever, if you don't want to. It's no one's business but ours." He lifted Greg's chin with one finger and Greg looked up, seeing the love in his soulmate's eyes and the gentle glow that was always around him.

He leaned forward, heart in his throat, and pressed his lips to Mycroft's. Both of them gasped quietly, and Mycroft kissed Greg with a careful passion that left him dizzy, panting into Mycroft's mouth. It was soft and wet and warm, and they traded the lead back and forth between them, Greg slowly opening for Mycroft's tongue.

It was electric, and wonderful, and soon it was more than Greg could quite handle. He was desperately turned on, but his mind still wasn't ready to follow where his body wanted to go and he backed off slightly. Mycroft sighed, nuzzling Greg's nose with his own.

"Thank you," Mycroft whispered. "Thank you. That was… exquisite."

Greg buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder, completely undone by the whole experience. He clung to Mycroft, shaking. Mycroft held him, rubbing his back. "I should go soon," Mycroft said, his lips moving in Greg's hair. "You need time to consider what's just happened, and I need to add the information you've given me to the growing file at work."

Greg's arms tightened around him. "Not just yet, though?"

Mycroft chuckled. "No, not just yet, my dear. There's no hurry."


	8. At Your Discretion

Sherlock strolled into Mycroft's office at a carefully calculated and all-too-casual pace, hands in his coat pockets. He smirked at Mycroft, obviously barely containing a laugh.

Mycroft eyed him up and down, then burst into a grin himself. "You have them."

Sherlock pulled the memory stick from his pocket and flipped it with one hand. "Did you ever doubt me, brother mine?"

Mycroft laughed and caught the stick when Sherlock tossed it to him. "Frequently," he said, pulling an isolated, heavily virus-protected laptop from a drawer in his desk. "One moment, while I confirm that these are the documents in question." Once the computer booted, Mycroft inserted the stick and examined the file names. He opened each of them in turn, scanning them quickly as Sherlock looked on, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet. His excitement warmed Mycroft and he couldn't help but smile himself as file after file checked out as complete and untampered.

Finally, satisfied, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, grinning widely at his brother. "I do suspect a knighthood is in your future, brother mine. Sir Sherlock. Mummy will be beside herself."

Sherlock snorted and dropped himself into one of the seats in front of Mycroft's desk. "Oh, please. I don't consider that any kind of actual _incentive_ to continue cooperating with you. Knighthoods are more your sort of reward. In fact, I find the whole idea offputting. Withdraw the offer immediately!" he snapped, affronted by the entire idea.

Mycroft laughed and shook his head. "Very well then, consider the threat neutralized. But you have done very well, Sherlock. Thank you. Did you find anything out about the potential buyers?"

Sherlock gave Mycroft a calculating look that said he had, in fact, uncovered something. Mycroft turned serious once again.

"Please, Sherlock. I am concerned that this may involve Moriarty, much as the escalating series of bombings does. It is much harder for me to protect you if I don't know what's going on."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, suddenly hostile again. "I concur, I'm sure it's Moriarty. But I don't need your protection," he spat.

With a slow, deep sigh, Mycroft said, "No, perhaps not. But the closer Moriarty gets to you, the more I believe that Gregory and John do. If you won't cooperate for yourself, then please, do it for them." Mycroft slipped the memory stick from the isolated laptop and shut it down, placing both items into the drawer. "I believe we can draw him out, and I can offer you backup, with minimal interference."

His brother's head tilted, cool eyes glittering in the afternoon sun that filtered through Mycroft's office window. "Minimal?"

"Tell me what you have in mind. I will provide discreet protection for your chosen location, and cover for you, should you actually need it. Moriarty is dangerous; I realize that makes it more… 'fun' for you, but I wish to minimize your risk. I've come too close to having to bury you on enough occasions that the concept gives me no pleasure whatsoever."

Sherlock considered for several minutes, fingers steepled under his lips. Mycroft could see his mind flittering through the possibilities, hummingbird-quick.

Mycroft mirrored his brother's posture. "What do you think of the pool, Sherlock?"

The flow of Sherlock's thought froze midstream and he looked up, meeting Mycroft's eyes. A thin smile slowly curved his lips. "The pool. Midnight."

With a nod, Mycroft agreed. "My operatives should not be visible unless something goes very wrong. I shall make the site as airtight as I can, and you can operate at your discretion."

"Agreed." Sherlock rose abruptly, all raven hair and swirling Belstaff. "My discretion, Mycroft. If you ruin this, our truce is ended."

Unhappy with the idea, but knowing he had to agree for form's sake if nothing else, Mycroft nodded again. "I shall see you tonight. Not a word to your erstwhile companion, if you please."

"No, that doesn't fit into my plan anyway."

"Send Andrea in when you leave, would you?"

Mycroft spent the rest of the day in planning for his brother's operation. He notified Gregory that something important was happening that night and warned him to take extra precautions. "If you see some of your security team lurking slightly closer today, I apologize," he said.

"Thanks for the heads up," Greg told him. "I'll let Sally know."

"Very good." Mycroft feared it wouldn't be enough, but he was doing all he could and valiantly resisting the urge to simply take his soulmate into protective custody until it was over. Sherlock would no doubt resent anything Mycroft did regarding Watson's security, so he left that to his brother. He hoped they'd have the sense to stick close until the operation was concluded.

As the hour drew nearer, Mycroft's team was placed and so were ready when Moriarty's people showed up. They were quietly dealt with and replaced with intelligence operatives, keeping the one who appeared to be the ringleader on site in case further information was needed on the fly. Mycroft himself was nearby, watching it all unfold.

When John Watson walked into the building strapped into a vest filled with explosives, Andrea and Mycroft's personal security team evacuated him from the site and into another building nearby, where he waited, horrified, and watched the scene unfold. Moriarty himself showed up a few minutes after, but Mycroft's people didn't interfere. Moriarty's presence itself wasn't enough. Mycroft needed audiovisual evidence to prove involvement and intent.

As Sherlock's shocked conversation with Moriarty unfolded, Mycroft got more than enough. It wasn't long before Moriarty realized something was off, but he took no action, simply threatening to detonate the vest. Watson tackled Moriarty, urging Sherlock to run, but the man laughed the entire thing off as though death was meaningless to him. That was a very bad sign, and Moriarty's lack of fear convinced Mycroft of what needed to happen. "When he's away from Watson, take your shot," Mycroft ordered.

"Confirmed, sir," his operative responded, and Mycroft waited, breaking out into a sweat. 

"Where is Gregory right now? I want eyes on him immediately. I need assurance that he's not been taken."

"On it, sir," Andrea replied, picking up her phone and firing off a rapid text. A moment later, she received a response. "He's at home, sir. His security team reports him safe. No incursions were made into his building today."

His soulmate's safety was secured for the moment, but his brother and the doctor were both still at active risk, and Mycroft watched the video feed from the pool with increasing distress. "Damn it, man, move!" he cursed, willing Moriarty away from them as though that would make the least difference to what was happening half a kilometer away. The last thing Mycroft wanted was to watch as his brother died in an explosion that would bring the entire building down.

Finally, blessedly, Moriarty shoved Watson away from him, daring Sherlock to shoot, and Mycroft's sniper fired. Moriarty went down in a splatter of blood and Sherlock dove at Watson, ripping the vest from him with shaking hands and flinging it away from them, into the pool.

The two of them knelt, clinging to each other, and Mycroft collapsed against the wall, breathless with relief. "I want his people questioned. I want everything we can get on him. Search every location associated with any of his identities. I want his associates. This will not be over just because he's been removed from the equation. There will be organizations and operations in motion, and he may have had a plan of retaliation ready." He looked up at his security team. "Move!"

The operatives ran, leaving Mycroft alone with Andrea, shaking with adrenaline. "I don't know if we've done the right thing," he said, shattered. "There are too many loose ends. But he couldn't be allowed to walk away from this, it was too dangerous for everyone."

"I trust your judgment, sir. I can only hope that your brother does, as well." She put a warm, bracing hand on his shoulder and he drew himself upright, shaking himself and reassuming the mantle of ice that was his habitual armour against the world.


	9. The Ring

When one of his security team came knocking up Greg's door about midnight, he'd been worried. "I'm fine. Nothing unusual. Is Mycroft okay?"

"Can't say, sir, sorry," had been the answer, but Greg regarded that as a yes. Otherwise he'd have expected a 'come with me' instead, and maybe Andrea at the door. He'd been in bed but he was sure as hell not going back yet. He wrapped himself in his bathrobe and resigned himself to waiting.

The incident had left him much too uneasy to sleep. He knew he'd not rest easy until he actually laid eyes on Mycroft, but he also didn't want to call or text him knowing he was in the middle of something critical. It had to be related to Morairty, and that left him twitchy as a mouse in a room full of cats. He didn't know how much physical danger Mycroft was in, but the visit had told him that Mycroft thought he was suddenly at more risk for some reason.

He made himself some tea and settled in to wait. 'Waiting' involved an overly enthusiastic amount of pacing back and forth, with a fair number of trips to the window to look for a familiar black car that kept refusing to appear. It was bloody frustrating. 

Finally, around three in the morning, he saw Mycroft's car coming up the street. He watched as his soulmate opened the door and stepped out, looking up to Greg's lighted lounge window. Greg pressed a hand against the pane and Mycroft nodded before making his way to the door below. Greg buzzed him in and met a frazzled Mycroft at the door to his flat. He couldn't help but smile with relief that he'd come.

"What happened? Is everyone okay? Sherlock all right?" He took Mycroft's coat from him and hung it on a hook by the door.

Mycroft stepped in close and took Greg into his arms, sighing like it was the first breath he'd taken in hours. Greg could feel the tension drain from him. "Yes. Shockingly, he and John are both safe for the moment. It was a very near thing."

"Talk to me."

Rather than speaking, Mycroft took Greg's face between his hands and kissed him quite thoroughly. Greg sank into it, breathless. Mycroft's hand slipped inside his robe, and his fingers fisted in Greg's threadbare t-shirt and his hair. Greg moaned, holding on tightly as Mycroft got whatever was in his system out. It was good, and Greg welcomed the kiss, but it wasn't about the two of them. It was about something his soulmate needed, something that had shaken him to the core; Greg could feel it.

Slowly, Mycroft's frantic energy faded. He pulled away and nuzzled at Greg's face, seemingly reassured. "There you are," Greg whispered. "Tell me what happened, what's upset you."

They went into Greg's kitchen and he put the kettle on for Mycroft. "We found Moriarty. He's dead," Mycroft said.

Greg looked at him over his shoulder as he reached down a mug from his cabinet. "Dead?" That was… disturbing, but also a lot more of a relief than he wanted to admit.

"He'd taken John. Brought him to Sherlock wrapped in explosives. I thought I was about to watch both of them die and take a very large building with them." Mycroft stood with hunched shoulders, uncomfortable.

Setting the mug on the counter, Greg turned back to Mycroft and hugged him. "Oh, god, I'm sorry love. But you said they're okay. They're not hurt?"

"They're unharmed. When I saw what had happened to Watson, I feared you might also have been taken. I'm sorry that I had security disturb you but…" Mycroft rested his forehead against Greg's.

"It's okay. I've been worried for you all night since Jeffers got me out of bed." He started the kettle and got some of Mycroft's tea out. "Didn't know where you were or what you were doing, and Jeffers said not a word. Wouldn't even tell me if you were okay, but I figured Andrea would have showed if you weren't, or they'd have taken me to you."

Mycroft nodded and leaned his hip against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest. Greg couldn't help admiring the long, slender line of his body. Mycroft's eyes were shadowed with a bruised shade of blue underneath, evidence of his exhaustion. Greg poured hot water over Mycroft's loose leaf tea. "True," Mycroft said. "Had I been harmed, I'd have wanted you to come to me if possible."

"You know I'd have been there. Nothing could keep me away." He got out the milk for Mycroft's tea from the fridge as the tea steeped. "I'd have been there tonight if I'd known what was happening. You know that."

"I know. But I wanted you safe. I wanted you nowhere near him. I wanted to be able to walk through your door, whatever happened tonight, and… and see you smile when you looked up at me. I am a selfish man." Mycroft's eyes were on the floor.

"Hey." Greg set the milk down and ran the tips of his fingers along the curve of Mycroft's jaw. He tilted Mycroft's face up to look at him. "I know you want me safe, but you can't wrap me in cotton wool. I'm not fragile, love. Anyway, as long as everyone's safe now, that's what counts. And the bombings are over, if he's gone. No more people will die like that." Regardless of anything else, that lifted a weight from Greg that he'd been carrying since the whole mad series of incidents had begun.

"There is still an organization behind him to deal with. Sherlock and I spoke before I came here. I think this incident has finally persuaded him that we can work together instead of at odds when it comes to certain projects." Mycroft fiddled nervously with the ring on his finger. Greg didn't ever remember seeing him without it, but he wasn't sure where it had come from. He took the tea leaves out of Mycroft's mug and added a little milk, the way he liked it.

"I hope so. Have some tea. It'll warm you, and you look like you need it." He handed the mug to Mycroft, who cupped it carefully between his hands. Greg touched the ring with his fingertip, caressing Mycroft's hand as he did. He moved a little closer.

"It was Uncle Rudy's," Mycroft said.

"The one who taught you that caring was a bad thing." He brushed the palm of his hand up Mycroft's arm as Mycroft sipped at his tea.

"Rudy was a brilliant man. He was a mentor to me in perhaps more ways than he should have been. While I learned a great deal from him, I believe now that I took some of the wrong messages to heart. He was… fond of me, in his own way. Took me under his wing when no one else cared for me at all."

When Greg raised an eyebrow at that, concerned, Mycroft continued. "It was strictly avuncular. There was never a hint of wrongdoing, believe me. Aside from his penchant for women's clothing, I believe he was actually asexual. I'd never known him to have any sort of connection to anyone else. He never dated, never married. To him, the work was everything. Love was… a chemical flaw, he said." 

They sat at Greg's tiny kitchen table, Greg's hand resting on Mycroft's wrist. "When I went into the intelligence services, he gave me the ring. Told me it would be the best sort of camouflage, a shield against… entanglements. I've worn it for so long that I suppose I'm barely conscious of it anymore, unless I'm under a great deal of stress. Then, as you saw, I tend to fiddle with it. It's an unfortunate tell, but most people don't know me well enough to realize that. I think I aspired to become my uncle. An island, independent, and a thing unto myself."

"But you're not," Greg said. "You're not made of stone, Mycroft. You do care for people. Your parents and your brother, they couldn't hurt you the way they do if you didn't care about them."

"I think that was, in part, what his message was. If I didn't care for them, they could not hurt me. Perhaps he simply meant to make me cautious, to warn me against over-involvement. But I can't separate myself from the world like that, much as I sometimes want to. I fear it makes me weak."

"It doesn't," Greg insisted. "You're just human, like the rest of us. Maybe you don't always want to be, but people without that connection, they're like your sister. You've told me about some of the things she's done, about how she hasn't any sense that other people even exist as anything more than walking sacks of meat."

Mycroft shivered and drank more of his tea. "I've always feared that Sherlock would fall from the razor's edge upon which he walks, between too much emotion and not enough." Mycroft's brow wrinkled, pensive. "Sometimes I fear that I will become like her. I know my employers do. I'm kept under a fairly careful watch, just as I monitor her. I am trusted only up to a certain point, never beyond."

The thought crushed Greg's heart and he squeezed Mycroft's arm gently. "They don't know you as well as they think."

Mycroft looked up at him over his mug. "You are the only one who does."

"And that's… that's an honour, Mycroft. That you'd trust me, trust our bond enough to show me this part of yourself." Greg tried to project how much it all meant to him with his entire demeanour, because words could lie and bodies so much more often told the truth. The cloth of Mycroft's suit coat under his hand was soft and warm and Mycroft looked troubled. "I love you," Greg assured him. "I know how hard you try to do the right thing, and how often you doubt yourself even if nobody else can see that. You are…" he took a steadying breath, "one of the strongest people I know. The decisions you have to make, I have no idea how you manage that sometimes. But you're a good man, an honourable man, and you put everyone else's needs before yours. You're not selfish, Mycroft. Far from it. I know that can make you vulnerable, but I've got your back. You never have to face any of this alone, ever."

Mycroft's eyes closed and he clutched his mug between his hands, obviously affected by Greg's words. "Your existence is a gift to me," he whispered. "Knowing you has changed my life, and it's changing Sherlock's as well, though he would deny it vehemently." He looked up again, serious but open. "We argue less now, talk a little more. It's very slow, but I've seen the changes. Your encouragement has meant everything. Your support, your presence, is essential to me. I don't think I could function without it anymore. And I've no idea what I give to you in return."

Those words were so immense, it was dizzying. "You're always here for me," Greg said. "You've got no idea. You held me together after Karen, when I was just mangled. To me, you're warmth and, and safety, like nobody else ever has been. You're my shelter. And I'm here for you. You must know that. I'll always be here." 

Mycroft looked at him like he was some kind of miracle and Greg's heart overflowed.


	10. Collapse

When Mycroft arrived at Baker Street, he found Sherlock sitting in his usual armchair, smoking. He could see that his brother was distracted, rather than pensive. Sherlock didn't note his entrance, even though he had -- for once -- actually been invited. 

The coffee table in front of the sofa, and part of the sofa itself, were heaped with stacks of paper and files. Mycroft skimmed the top layer without touching anything; it all looked related to their pursuit of Moriarty's criminal web. 

"Sherlock." Mycroft received no response and tried again, a little more sharply. "Sherlock!"

His brother startled then took a long drag from the nearly spent cigarette between his fingers. He looked up and gestured for Mycroft to sit in John's chair. 

"What progress have you made?" Mycroft asked, sitting. He leaned his umbrella against the side of the chair, twirling the handle with one hand.

"A fair bit, but that's not entirely why I summoned you."

Mycroft wanted to object that he hadn't been 'summoned' but he bit back on the response. "What is the salient point, then? Do recall I haven't all day."

Sherlock shook his head slowly. He crushed the remains of his cigarette in an ashtray and tucked it under his chair. "I'm starting to see patterns in what we're finding," he said, "but certain aspects of this case seem to be triggering strange dreams." He looked up at Mycroft. "I don't usually dream at all. Your corpulent youthful form features in these travesties, which I find disturbing." He cringed. "The odd part, though, is that sometimes Redbeard appears, but he isn't always a dog." Mycroft stiffened, his restless umbrella-twiddling going still. "Ordinarily, this sort of thing wouldn't even be worth noting. Dreams are simply the disordered fragments of daily life trying to sort themselves out, often in the most boringly obvious symbolism."

"Tell me, brother mine," Mycroft said, keeping his voice strictly under control, "what do you remember, specifically, about Redbeard?"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft with his 'what kind of moron are you' expression. "Why would you ask me _that_?"

"Please," Mycroft said, gesturing with one hand. "Humour me." His heart rattled in his chest, pulse too fast. If this was what he thought it was, Mycroft wasn't properly prepared to discuss it with his brother. Unfortunately, prepared or not, the time for that most unwelcome conversation might finally have arrived.

Sherlock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, regarding Mycroft with laser intensity. "This disturbs you. Deeply. Why?"

"Tell me," Mycroft insisted.

"You should remember him as well as I do," Sherlock scoffed. "What's to tell?"

"I should like to hear your specific memories of him. Please."

Sherlock huffed and rose, pacing the floor from window to kitchen door. "Redbeard was my Irish Setter," he said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world and Mycroft the world's prize idiot.

"Do you remember when you acquired him?" Mycroft observed his brother carefully.

"When I was…" Sherlock stopped pacing. "When…" He looked at Mycroft. "I don't remember when I got him. I must have deleted it. I might have been six or seven. Why would I delete my dog?"

"Why indeed," Mycroft murmured, nervous.

"This makes no sense." Sherlock's mood had shifted from arrogant impatience to confusion. 

"In your dream, when Redbeard was not a dog, how did he appear to you? Be specific. Neglect no detail."

Sherlock's face twisted in confusion and he sat in his chair once again. "I… a boy. A young boy." He closed his eyes and covered his face with one hand as John entered with a bag of groceries. He started to speak but Mycroft held up a hand to silence him. Watson froze and looked between them.

"Sherlock?" John said. "Are you all right?"

"He was a boy, in my dream," Sherlock said, his voice unsteady. "Light hair. Blond, or perhaps ginger. About six years old."

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, "this is private. Could you please leave and come back later?"

Watson looked to Sherlock. "No," Sherlock said. "He stays. Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of him."

Mycroft shook his head. "You don't understand, Sherlock. This is not what you think it is." Damn it. Sherlock was remembering, which meant that this had to be handled delicately, and the last thing Mycroft needed was John Watson interfering. 

"Then explain," Sherlock growled. He pointed at Mycroft. "Get out of John's seat. You can sit in the client seat if there's something you need to say."

"Sherlock--"

"Do it." Sherlock glared at Mycroft and, reluctantly, Mycroft rose with his umbrella in hand and moved to the other chair, pulling it closer to his brother's seat.

Mycroft glanced at John, who went into the kitchen to put the groceries away, then back at Sherlock. "What else, Sherlock? Do you remember any other details?"

"It was a dream," Sherlock said. "The details always change."

"What do you _remember_ ," Mycroft insisted.

"An… an eyepatch," Sherlock murmured.

"Sherlock, there is something extremely important that I need to tell you, but I cannot discuss it with John here."

"I can hear you," John called from the kitchen.

"Is it one of your ridiculous national security restrictions? We're already up to our necks in classified information on this case. I doubt there's anything you could say that would make it worse."

"No," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "Sherlock this… this has to do with family."

"John _is_ family," Sherlock spat. "He stays or you go."

Mycroft looked over at John in the kitchen, who smirked at him. The situation was about to become very volatile. "Sherlock, Redbeard was not a dog."

"Oh, please."

"Father is dreadfully allergic to canines. We never had a dog."

"That's ridiculous."

Uneasily, Mycroft uttered a name. "Victor Trevor."

Sherlock's eyes shot wide with shock. John returned to the room and knelt next to Sherlock's chair quickly when he saw the expression on his friend's face. "What the hell did you just say to him?" John snapped.

"Victor," Sherlock whispered. "Redbeard." He focused on Mycroft again, bolting to his feet. "What else have you been keeping from me all this time?" he shouted.

Mycroft swallowed, nervous. There was a distinct possibility that Sherlock could become violent if he didn't react very carefully. "There were… traumatic incidents, Sherlock. You blocked out the memories, but your deletion was incomplete."

Sherlock's eyes unfocused and snapped back and forth for a few moments as he delved into his mind palace. He shook his head violently, then stared at Mycroft, his face contorting in anger and confusion. "Victor -- what happened to Victor? I remember… I remember a… a fire."

"Sherlock?" John rose and stood beside Sherlock. He glared at Mycroft. "What's going on here?"

"Sherlock, there's more."

Sherlock's hands flew to his head and he held his temples, eyes closed. His shoulders curled inward and he collapsed into his chair, holding his head in both hands. "She's -- where is she? Who is she?" Sherlock gasped.

"Jesus, Mycroft, what are you doing to him?" John advanced on him in anger and Mycroft scrambled to his feet and backed away as Sherlock's hand shot out and grabbed John's wrist.

"I'm not doing this to him," Mycroft said. "He did this in self-defense and now the walls he built are collapsing."

"Whatever you said to him, he's having a bloody meltdown, and it's your fault!" John shouted, trying to tug his arm from Sherlock's grip. Mycroft backed away further, keeping the chair between himself and Sherlock's angry doctor.

"John, stop!" Sherlock demanded. "He's right. He didn't do this."

"What the hell is going on?" John asked again.

"There was--" Mycroft started.

"--a sister," Sherlock said, his face slack with shock. "We had a sister."

"That's ridiculous, neither of you have ever mentioned a sister. How could you not mention having a sister?" John jerked his arm out of Sherlock's fist.

"You don't understand," Mycroft said, shaking his head. He stayed back out of John's reach, ready to bolt for the door if things deteriorated further.

Sherlock got to his feet, unsteady, and put a hand on John's shoulder. "She -- it was her. The east wind."

"Euros."

"All these years, you kept telling me about a storm coming. What happened? I don't… there are gaps. Massive gaps, Mycroft." Mycroft could see Sherlock's fingers tighten on John's shoulder.

Mycroft moved hesitantly, his attention focused on John, who seemed to be less intent on doing violence now. "This… will take quite some time to explain." He gestured to John with one open hand. "If you would consider not assaulting me, perhaps we could begin."

Eventually, the three of them were seated at the kitchen table. John made tea for them and sat next to Sherlock, holding his hand as Mycroft outlined the traumatic details of their childhood: Victor's disappearance and probable murder, Euros's strange behavior, her attacks on Sherlock and on Mycroft, the fire that had destroyed Musgrave Hall. Sherlock listened, occasionally filling in details as the walls he'd built around the memories crumbled. John said little but sat there nearly vibrating with rage.

"If the information you've been finding has triggered the utter disintegration of your memory blocks, then I am certain we are going to find that she is somehow connected to Moriarty's network. And if that is true, we are all in grave danger, because she is supposed to be in the most secure location our country has been capable of conceiving." Mycroft shuddered, horrified. "Everything is going to have to be reviewed. Every single individual with any access to the facility whatsoever will need to be reevaluated."

Sherlock looked over at the piles of paper and files on the coffee table. "Tell me something, Mycroft. Do our parents know about any of this?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and shook his head. "No. Uncle Rudy thought it best that they believe she had perished in a fire at the facility where she was being held as a child. She had killed two other patients and one of the nurses. It… it also made it easier for you to maintain your block. We… everything we did, Sherlock, was to keep you safe."

Sherlock reached hesitantly across the kitchen table and grasped Mycroft's wrist. "The fire. It started near your room. You were locked inside. I wasn't the only one she was trying to kill."

"You were more important," Mycroft whispered. "You were always…" He took a shuddering breath. "I didn't matter."

John stared at them, obviously struggling to reevaluate what he knew about the brothers. The fact that he said nothing was a relief to Mycroft, who was having his own silent emotional crisis.

"You did," Sherlock said. "You do."


	11. Just a Bacon Sarnie

Greg had taken some of his lunch break to go down to the clinic where he'd gone for an STD screening to pick up his results. It was something he should have done months ago, but he'd been avoiding the whole idea like the mature professional he was. He told himself that even though Karen had been cheating on him for years, he'd found out by means of a condom, so maybe it would be okay, and he'd not been showing any symptoms of anything he'd been able to google. Given the nature of the errand, he'd ditched Sally, knowing Mycroft's people would be nearby in case of any trouble.

Still, if Greg wanted to get any closer to Mycroft than just snogging the life out of each other -- which was really bloody fantastic by itself -- then he needed to make sure she'd not left him with any kind of a gift that kept on giving. God knew he didn't need that kind of a reminder of her every time he looked at his soulmate.

The clinician he spoke with looked up his test results and gave him the unmarked envelope. "You've tested negative for everything, sir," she said. "Come back again any time you might have concerns. We're always here for you."

"Thanks," he responded, opening the envelope and looking at the results. It was something he could show to Mycroft, even though he knew Mycroft was aware he could never lie to him about something like this. He read it over quickly, confirming his status, then folded it small and tucked it into his wallet where it would be safe.

He'd gone to grab a sarnie and a cup of coffee on his way back to the Yard, too distracted to watch the crowd around him, when he bumped into a woman with long, dark hair and glasses, spilling his coffee all over himself and the pavement. "Oi! Watch where you're going!" the woman barked; she'd dropped her bag of groceries, which were now scattered all around them. Greg, mortified, apologized profusely and helped her pick up her things. Once they'd got her tins and packets together and back into the bag, she grumbled at him and went on her way.

A few moments later, as Greg was trying to blot the coffee off his shirt and trousers, Abrams from his security team approached, a little breathless. He'd obviously jogged over from wherever he'd been skulking. "You okay, sir?"

Greg sighed and checked his pockets just in case, but everything was in order. "Not a pickpocket," he said, "so I'm just soaked and I'm going to need a shower and a change of clothes when I get back to the office. Thank god I've got a spare there for the all-nighters."

"You want me to get you another coffee?" Abrams offered. Greg looked at the bag with his sarnie. It was going to be pretty dry without one.

"Yeah, thanks. That would be great. Just… I'd really prefer that my clinic visit was private, right?"

Abrams nodded. "Of course, sir. Discretion is our watchword. I'll be right back." He ducked into a Caffè Nero across the street and came back a couple of minutes later with a new coffee for Greg, then faded back into the crowd, having saved Greg from standing in queue with a sopping coffee stained shirt.

Donovan found him as he was dropping his lunch on his desk. "Where the hell did you vanish to?" she asked, glowering at him. "You're not supposed to slip your lead. Holmes'll have my head." He turned to answer her and she looked him over. "Oh, god, what a mess."

"Yeah, lunch was a bit of a disaster, so if you don't mind, I'm off to the showers."

"Shall I guard your food?" Sally asked, with a glint in her eyes.

Greg pointed a stern finger at her. "If there's so much as a nibble gone from my lunch, you are fired."

She looked at the bag again. "Is it bacon? Might be worth it."

He waved his hands at her, shooing her out of his office. "All right, that's it -- out!" They both laughed as she sauntered back to her desk.

Greg headed for the showers and pulled his spare clothes out of his locker, rolling his dirty, wet things into a ball and stuffing them into a plastic bag to carry home. God, his locker was going to smell like stale coffee for a week. He took a quick shower and got dressed again, then went back to his office and wolfed down his sarnie and cold coffee in the few minutes he had left before he had to be formally back on the clock.

Late in the afternoon, just before it was time to leave, Greg rang Mycroft. "Hey," he said, "would it be all right if I saw you this evening? I've… I've got something I wanted to share with you."

"Gregory." Mycroft's voice sounded stressed. He must have been having a bad day. "I… yes. That would be most welcome. I… I have something I need to discuss with you, as well. I'd prefer this take place at my flat, as it's of a sensitive nature."

That was convenient, as Greg wasn't wanting to discuss his health over dinner in a crowded restaurant, and he didn't really feel comfortable dealing with it at the Diogenes, either. "Yeah, of course. You okay?"

"I'll send a car," Mycroft said, and rang off before Greg could say anything else. 

Damn. Whatever had happened must have been bad, because Mycroft usually had at least a couple of minutes to chat unless he was in a meeting, in which case Andrea would have answered the phone.

The car was waiting for him in the usual spot when he got off work, and spirited him away to Mycroft's, where he was greeted at the door. The strain on Mycroft's face was obvious and deep.

"Christ, what happened?" Greg asked as he closed the door behind him.

Mycroft said nothing, drawing Greg into his arms and holding him, silent, for several minutes. Greg let him, knowing that when Mycroft was like this, he'd speak on his own time and not before. He held his soulmate and waited. Finally, Mycroft drew a looser breath and spoke without letting go of Greg. "I had to tell Sherlock about our sister today. As you can imagine, it was fraught."

"Is Sherlock all right?"

"He's… in a very delicate state right now, but John is with him and aware that this is a danger night."

"Does John know what's going on?"

Mycroft nodded. "He was there, despite that I'd have much preferred to have the conversation in private. He was… volatile."

Greg drew away from Mycroft, holding him at arm's length and looking him over. "He didn't hit you, did he?"

"No, but it was a near thing."

"I thought you weren't ready to tell Sherlock yet?"

"The information he's been uncovering cracked the already wavering defenses he'd placed around her existence. It was a choice between telling him and monitoring the process, or letting him crumble alone, with no explanations."

"Oh, god, yeah," Greg breathed. "That's Hobson's choice, isn't it." In the face of all that, Greg's news paled, not even worth mentioning.

Mycroft's nose wrinkled. "Why are you carrying that plastic bag of clothing that smells so strongly of coffee?" he asked. "Did you have some sort of accident at work with the coffee machine?"

"Sort of. I was out for lunch and ran into some woman on the sidewalk. My coffee and her groceries went everywhere. It was a mess. I needed a shower when I got back to the office."

Mycroft eyed him suspiciously. "And where was Sergeant Donovan during this debacle? No one should have been within arms' reach of you."

"Well," Greg said, a bit sheepish, "I gave her the slip. It was just lunch, and I had somewhere else I wanted to go that she didn't need to know about."

Mycroft glowered at him and snapped, "The entire purpose of close protection is that you _do not evade your bodyguard_! What if you'd been hurt? If my sister was somehow in contact with Moriarty from inside the most secure facility this country possesses, you are not _safe_! She is a murderous psychopath! You have personal security for a reason!"

"It's -- Mycroft, Abrams was right there. He showed up less than a minute later, when we'd picked up the woman's things and sent her on her way. I checked and made sure I'd not been pickpocketed but I was soaked through." Greg knew he'd made an error in judgment, but Mycroft's bad day was compounding it exponentially. He probably wasn't going to hear the end of this for at least another couple of days.

"Being there after the fact would not have prevented your assassination! What was so important that you felt you had to _leave your close security behind_?" Mycroft's eyes were blazing with anger and fear, and his hands tightened around Greg's biceps, shaking.

"I-- It's just…" Bloody hell, this was going to be embarrassing. "Mycroft, I'm sorry. It's something I should have done months ago, but I wasn't ready. I, fuck. I wanted this to be something we could celebrate, not something we got into a fight over."

"Nothing would be worth celebrating if you _died_."

Thank god this wasn't like his fights with Karen. Mycroft wasn't upset for nothing, and this really was Greg's fault. Nothing had happened but he'd definitely fucked up. "You're right," he said, "I'm sorry. It was private but I should have found another way to handle it. It won't happen again, I promise."

Mycroft glowered for a moment more before he nodded, not happy but at least slightly mollified. "So, tell me, what was worth risking your life over?"

Greg sighed and set the plastic bag of clothes down. He reached for his wallet and wordlessly handed the folded sheet of his test results to his soulmate. Mycroft opened the paper and looked down at the information, staring at it for a moment as though it made no sense. He blinked a couple of times then looked up at Greg, poleaxed.

"You… Gregory, this is…"

"Yeah," Greg nodded. "It is."

Mycroft sighed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I can understand why you wanted this to be private but yes, you really should have found another way to handle it. I'm… I would have thought you'd have been tested immediately after you discovered Karen's behavior." He handed the paper back to Greg and the two of them went into Mycroft's kitchen, where Greg could smell a chicken roasting in the oven.

"I guess I was afraid to. I mean she'd used a condom--"

"That once, as far as you know," Mycroft interrupted.

"Yeah, okay, that once. But there weren't any symptoms I'd noticed and we weren't anywhere near even talking about … being together. It… I guess I was still trying to deny everything to myself."

"And now, you're not."

Greg sank into a chair at Mycroft's table, his head in his hands. "It's complicated, okay? And you had a shit day, so this is really not the best time for us to talk about my being terrified of accepting who I am and what I want. I swear to you, this was not how I intended for this evening to go." 

Mycroft sat in the chair at an angle to him and took Greg's hands in his own. "I'm very displeased with you, but you understand why, and I am extremely grateful that you are beginning to feel able to address this directly with me. Given a few days, I can also undergo a screening and present you with the results."

"But you've said it's been decades since you were involved with anyone."

Mycroft shrugged. "That's as may be, but there are ways of transmitting disease that don't involve sexual contact."

Greg's brow wrinkled and he looked up at Mycroft. "What, you've had a blood transfusion during that time or something?"

Myrcroft's mouth quirked and he tilted his head. "I've not always worked behind a desk."

"Shit," Greg whispered.

"I'm fine," Mycroft said. "Offering mutual assurance of our status seems appropriate at this point." He reached out and caressed Greg's cheek. "I just want you to remember that I have you under watch for a reason. This is not a game, Gregory, and your safety is not to be taken lightly. Until I know what's going on with Euros and how she was able to have dealings with Moriarty from within a secure facility, we cannot relax our vigilance for a moment."

Greg nodded. "Yeah. Okay. I'll try not to make things harder for you."

"Thank you," Mycroft breathed, and he kissed Greg gently.


	12. An Unexpected Gift

Mycroft received a stack of folders and envelopes from Andrea that included updates from Sherlock and a discreet unmarked envelope from his physician's office. He perused everything in the stack before delving into Sherlock's observations. More threads, spidering out around the globe, but Mycroft could see hints of his sister's fingerprints in them. It was deeply alarming.

During the last week he'd spoken with Sir Edwin and Lady Smallwood, and the three of them had arranged for the entire staff and administration of Sherrinford to be replaced as of yesterday. Mycroft had taken the day to go there himself and oversee the operation and Euros's containment. Everyone associated with the project would be intensively debriefed, their professional and personal lives examined under a microscope, and even the smallest irregularity rigorously pursued. Mycroft was uncertain that it would be enough.

Euros had watched him when he entered the chamber before her cell, a strange, fragmentary smile on her face, and he'd been unnerved. "What have you brought me today, big brother?"

Mycroft had departed, saying nothing, his skin crawling. He and his peers had done everything possible to assure his sister's continued isolation. Regarding this, at least, there was nothing further he could do at the moment and, while he was uneasy, he was going to make a valiant attempt not to dwell upon it.

Finally, Mycroft turned his attention to the report from his physician. He opened the envelope and skimmed it, finding everything exactly as he'd expected. He refolded the report and slipped it back into the envelope. Once he was done for the day, he decided to make a brief stop at a bookshop on the way home. 

In the car after he'd found what he was looking for, he called Gregory. 

"I'm sorry, but I can't talk for more than a minute right now, Mycroft. We've got a bank robbery that occurred a couple of hours ago, and I've got to coordinate the door to door interviews. It'll be hours before I'm free." Greg sounded preoccupied and Mycroft could hear a great deal of activity going on in the background.

"Will you be free tomorrow?" It would be Saturday and, if things were reasonably well in hand, perhaps Greg would have most of the day available.

Greg sighed. "I'm not sure. Depends on how much progress we make tonight. I'm hoping to wrap things up here on site by midnight. If I can hand stuff off to forensics at that point, I should do, though."

"I should like to request the pleasure of your company for brunch, then, if I all goes well." It was a little disappointing, but neither of them worked strictly regular hours. As long as nothing else got piled on Gregory's plate in his current investigation, Mycroft was fairly certain they'd be able to see one another.

"Yeah, I'd love to see you. Been over a week. I've… well, I've been missing you." Gregory's voice quieted with the admission.

"I've missed you, as well." Seeing him was always a pleasure. Greg's company was an oasis in Mycroft's life much of the time. His soulmate's influence was a calming, steadying thing and Mycroft wasn't certain he'd ever have quite enough of the man. 

Their conversation paused, neither of them saying anything. Mycroft wanted nothing more than to simply share a peaceful moment in Greg's presence. Lacking that, the silence between them on the phone would have to do.

Finally, he could hear other voices near Greg on the phone. "I'm sorry, love, I've got to go." Greg's voice was quiet and private, meant only for Mycroft's ears.

"Call me tomorrow and we shall arrange a time for your arrival. I shall see you soon."

"I will." Greg rang off, and Mycroft found himself wishing that tomorrow had already arrived. Dinner would be much less pleasant than he'd been hoping.

The next morning about ten, Mycroft got a call from Greg saying that, if the brunch invitation was still open, he could be at Mycroft's flat in forty five minutes or so. Pleased, Mycroft went about preparing a champagne brunch that was ready about the same time his soulmate arrived.

Mycroft greeted Greg at the door with a kiss, which Greg reciprocated with a pleased sound, and he led them into the dining room. Greg saw the bottle of champagne on the table with the food and looked over at Mycroft. "Fancy. What's the occasion?" He sat as Mycroft opened the bottle and poured two flutes. He handed one to Greg.

"The last time we saw each other, you had news that you wished to celebrate and discuss. Due to circumstances, neither the celebration nor the discussion occurred. I had hoped to remedy that lack. And," he said, sliding an envelope across the table, "I did promise you that I should provide my own equivalent results. If you wish to see them, of course."

Greg, still holding the champagne flute in his hand, looked up at Mycroft, his lips slightly open, the glow of their soulbond about him. He was beautiful, and Mycroft's heart ached. He raised his glass to Gregory.

"Y-you know I trust you, right?" Greg said. "You didn't need to do this, I'd have believed you."

"Consider it a show of openness on my part, duly documented, freely offered. This sort of thing doesn't happen often in my life." He proffered his glass to Greg, who raised his own, and the flutes rang softly at the gentle touch. "Please, let's enjoy our meal."

"It looks great. And thank you." Greg sipped at the champaign and set the flute down. He took himself some of the food Mycroft had prepared. "Thank you for this. I'm just really glad to see you again. It was a long week."

Mycroft nodded, filling his own plate. "Very." He took a few bites of egg and toast and said, "I took it as read that when you brought your screening results to me, it signified a willingness to address the attraction I know we both feel. I know you've been struggling, to a certain extent, with your identity since the divorce. I thought, perhaps, that it might help to have some resources to draw upon if you were having difficulty with the idea of talking about it, at first." Rising from the table, he got the books he'd purchased from the sideboard and brought them to Greg.

Hesitantly, Greg took the books from him. Looking at the titles, he blushed furiously. _A History of Bisexuality_ , _Bi Men: Coming Out Every Which Way_ , _The Bisexual Option_. "I… Mycroft, this… I feel weird reading about this sort of thing!"

"If you don't want them, you needn't take them. I hoped they would aid you in accepting yourself by contextualizing your struggle. That reading about the experiences of others in similar straits might help you understand that, whatever else society might say, you are not alone."

"You just… I mean giving a bloke books like this, it's just odd, isn't it? As a gift?" The confusion and uncertainty on his face was painful.

With a shrug, Mycroft said, "I suppose I could have left them under the stack of true crime novels at your bedside, hidden, in much the same way that you hide yourself. Would that have been preferable? An accidental discovery?"

"I-I don't know."

Mycroft's response was a bit gruff. "If it makes you feel better, they're not pornography, or even instructional manuals. It's not like I purchased you a copy of _The Joy of Gay Sex_." He could feel his ears go pink at the thought.

Greg's blush intensified and he shuffled a bit uncomfortably in his chair. Mycroft reached out to take the books back from Greg if he didn't want them, but Greg pulled them back, tucked against his chest with his arms crossed over them, protective. "No, no, Mycroft, this was… it was really a sweet gesture. I guess you probably did a lot of reading when you started to figure things out." Mcroft nodded. He had a rather extensive library, in fact. "I'm, it was just a bit of a shock is all. Maybe you're right. Maybe reading a little first will help me feel more comfortable talking about it, at least with you. Give me… places to start. Things to think about."

Mycroft relaxed at that, knowing that he'd only been awkward in his attempt to help, not somehow offensive. "When you came to me, that night with your screening results, how did you imagine the evening going?" He picked up his fork and began to eat again.

"I guess I don't really know. Just, I knew that I've been attracted to you like that, and -- oh hell, I don't know, maybe you'd have swept me off to bed and there would have been frantic fucking and I'd somehow get over myself if we did." Greg shook his head and sighed. "Sounds kind of stupid when I say it like that, doesn't it?"

"Not stupid, just uncertain and hopeful. A bit unrealistic. Frankly, had that happened, I'd be concerned that you might have morning after regrets about the abrupt change in our relationship. Not that I feared you abandoning me, exactly, but that you'd be so alarmed by the results that you might pull away and the closeness that we share might have been… bruised." Mycroft sighed and stared down into his plate. "I suppose that I also fear that you might be disappointed by my very rusty skills and decide that a sexual relationship with me was no longer a possibility you wished to pursue."

"Oh. That… I never thought of that. You're just always so confident, you always seem to know what you want and what's going on. Never occurred that you might be uncertain about this, too." Greg's posture relaxed and he put the books on the table next to his plate, finally turning his attention back to the food. "It's very you, really, buying me books instead of making me try to stammer my way through questions I could hardly even define."

"I love you," Mycroft said. "And when a sexual relationship happens between us, I want it to be both pleasurable and permanent. I'm a very patient man."

Greg smiled at him, his brown eyes glittering in the late-morning light through the windows. "Yeah. You are. This is so, so different than anything I had with… anybody, really. And I'm really looking forward to it, even if sometimes it seems like I'm falling all over myself to avoid the issue."


	13. A Middle-Aged Existential Crisis

When Greg left Mycroft's place that afternoon, he'd asked for a bag to carry the books in because he really didn't want to be just carrying them like that in the tube where anybody could see him having his bloody existential crisis. He was a copper and he'd grown up, if not knowing in his bones that he was straight, then at least knowing that he loved women. Most everybody talked like there were only two boxes you could put people into, but Greg never felt like he belonged strictly in either of them. He was never attracted enough to other blokes that he had to say he was gay, so he'd always just preferred to not label himself at all. Safer that way. More comfortable. Easier.

Except when it wasn't.

Except when he'd got himself a male soulmate who was gay and not ashamed of that fact, and his ex had assumed that Greg was suddenly in the gay box, and therefore absolutely and of course going to go suck Mycroft's cock regardless of still being married.

Not that he'd never given a passing thought to the concept, but he'd been married and a passing thought was all it had ever been.

Sunday turned out rainy and just a crap day, so football practice wasn't on and Greg stayed home with some tea and those books Mycroft had bought him. He flipped through them all, a bit boggled when one of them had an appendix that was nothing but bloody statistics. Bet on Mycroft to give somebody a book about being bisexual that would have statistics in it. He'd had enough of that in school, so he picked up the one that was mostly men telling about how they'd figured it out, how they'd come out -- if they had -- and how they'd dealt with the changes when the people in their lives knew. 

Some of them had lost marriages or jobs, or their kids had been taken away from them. A few had found soulmates. Lots of them had finally found love, but there almost always seemed to be so much prejudice around the whole thing. Make up your mind. Pick one and stick with it. Choose a side.

Greg supposed that was what he was afraid of, if he was honest. How people would treat him differently if he actually told anyone. Technically the law was on his side, but he'd seen how people got awkward when somebody came out. Sally had said that if he were in a relationship with Mycroft, she'd be okay with it, she'd support him. He knew she would, because he'd known her long enough to trust her. Most of the others at work, though... 

Then again, he could always just shut up and not have to let anyone know. Sally walked around black every damned day, and he saw the kinds of utter shite she dealt with, and he also knew he would never actually see all of it. He did his best to back her up but he knew that now and then he put his own foot in it, as well, because it wasn't like he was some kind of saint. Like the books talked about, you grew up in a culture with prejudices and you were bound to have some of them soak in, even if it was yourself you were being taught to hate.

And sometimes, he realized, it was partly that nasty little crumb of self-loathing that had kept him from doing more than kissing a couple of the other boys and having a mutual wank with them. Had kept him from ever actually trying to date any of them.

He wondered what his life might have been like if he'd not been afraid. What he would have been like. Maybe he'd never have married Karen in the first place. Or, if he had, maybe he'd have understood her better and not been so blind to her stepping out on him all the time.

Maybe, he thought with a grimly amused snort, he'd have tossed her over for Mycroft the minute the man had showed up in his life, glowing like a saint in Greg's darkness.

Making himself another cup of tea, Greg sank into the ancient, saggy cushions of his couch. He picked up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Auntie Nina, how are you?" He smiled to hear her voice.

"Greg! Oh, honey, how are you? It's been a dog's age. We're well here. How are you, and how's that soulmate of yours?" He heard her turn away from the phone and shout, "Teddy, it's Greg!" There was a pause and a voice in the background and Nina said, "Ted says hi and to tell you he loves you."

"Ta, Nina. Tell Ted he's the best. After you, of course."

She laughed. "What's on your mind, dearie. Is everything okay?"

He leaned back into the couch, staring out the window at the rain and the grey sky. "Yeah, mostly. I just… I have a lot on my mind and you're one of the few people I can talk with about this."

"So it is your soulmate, then."

Greg sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, it is. He's amazing. He's… I fell in love with him, ages ago."

"Well, of course you did, he's your soulmate. People always love their soulmate." She sounded like she was explaining it to a five year old.

"No, Nina, I'm _in love_ with him. Like, if he was a woman I'd get him a ring in love with him."

"Ah, yeah, I see. Does that bother you? Does it bother him?"

Greg shook his head at the air, knowing his aunt couldn't see it. "No, he's gay. He's out. Doesn't care who knows it. Got confidence in buckets. It's… kind of hot actually."

She chuckled. "So what's bothering you about that? The fact you were married before? It's not like that horrible girl was any good for you after the first couple of years. Cheating on you like that, really." Her disapproval was almost visible over the phone.

"I'm just whinging, Nina. I want him but I'm scared to death of it. He… he bought me _books_ about being bisexual and I… it felt a little weird."

"He bought you _books_ about it? Good god, Greg, go throw yourself at that dear boy right now. He must adore you!"

"You're not… you don't think it's… wrong? I've never felt gay, but I don't think I ever felt straight, really, either. Mostly I tried not to think about it." He sipped his tea.

Nina snorted a laugh. "No, I don't think it's wrong, soulmates or not. People love who they love. And if it's your soulmate, if you fall in love with your soulmate," her voice went wistful and a bit melty, "it's just the most romantic thing. Greg, honey, it sounds like you're really struggling with this, but it's like swimming in a lake in the summer. Just hop in. There's a bit of a shock at first, but then you get used to it and then you wonder why you ever hesitated because it's so cool and soothing and lovely. If you want to tell people you can, or you can just keep that specialness between the two of you. It's only your business. But don't hold yourself back because you're afraid to love after what Karen did to you. Your soulmate won't hurt you. He'll love you so much. I know your mum might not understand too well, but Teddy and I will always be here for you. You bring your lad over to meet us sometime soon, won't you?"

Greg grinned into his mug. Of course Nina would be like that. She'd always been wonderful to him, and Ted was a cheeky old bugger who loved Greg too. "I don't know when we'll have time soon, but I'll talk to him and let him know you asked."

"All right then, Greg. You go have some tea and read your books your lad gave you and stay in from the cold and wind today, do you hear?"

"Of course, auntie. Got my tea already. It was good to talk with you."

They rang off and Greg lay on the couch staring up at the ceiling. Maybe she was right and he was just being too hard on himself, expecting to be rejected when in his heart he knew Mycroft never would. He loved kissing Mycroft, loved having the man's arms around him. All his life, he'd been the tall one, the physically stronger one, the one who protected and held, but Mycroft made Greg feel warm and safe. Mycroft held him sometimes, cradled in his arms and adored. What would it be like to be naked with him? To touch his skin? To sleep next to him?

What would it be like to make love with him? How would his face look in the dim light of his bedroom, that sharp nose tilted back, his mouth open in ecstasy? What would he sound like? And how would those thin, strong fingers touch him? Greg let his own fingers trail down his body, caressing, imagining Mycroft.

He imagined Mycroft kissing him, lying there with him, their bodies warm all along the length of them, and he rubbed his hand over his stiffening cock through the fabric of his jeans. Greg closed his eyes, focusing, listening to the remembered sound of Mycroft's breath after they'd kissed, a little rough and ragged. How it felt on his skin, rushing in his ear and sending shivers down his spine. He squeezed his cock and unzipped, pulling himself out and taking his length in hand, stroking slowly and thinking of how it would feel if it were Mycroft's hand.

God, he wanted him. It would feel so fucking good to have someone touch him who _wanted_ him, who loved him and wasn't hiding anything from him. He rubbed his thumb over the crown of his cock, smearing the drop of clear liquid that had started to bead there. The little bit of slick left Greg imagining Mycroft's tongue, and the hot depth of his mouth, and it had been too long, and Greg came with a gasp, splashing a mess all over his shirt and his lap.

He lay there for a few minutes, just enjoying the slow descent and the afterglow, but part of him was painfully conscious of how alone he was, lying there on his couch, when what he really wanted was Mycroft curled around him, holding him, kissing him gently as he came down. With a sigh, he wiped his damp eyes with his sleeve.

Soon. He'd go to him soon.


	14. Dear Me

Mycroft dropped his briefcase on a chair near his desk as Andrea followed him into his office. 

"Things went that badly, sir?"

He slumped into his chair, elbows on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. "Imagine, if you will, the inexpressible thrill of walking into Buckingham Palace to find my dear brother wearing nothing but a bedsheet," he groaned.

"Oh, dear." She sounded disturbed but amused, and Mycroft's mood was not helped when she began to giggle.

He glared up at her. "Really, Andrea! It was mortifying!"

With a concerted effort, she stopped giggling, but couldn't quite control the grin on her face. "You have to admit, it's rather funny, though."

Mycroft glowered. "No, I do not!"

She snickered again. "Perhaps next week, after the mortification's worn off a bit."

"How can I ever expect anyone to take me seriously when Sherlock acts like a bloody toddler? I thought he was maturing recently, but this was completely beyond the pale!" He dropped back in his chair, resting his head against the top of it, neck stretched out as he stared at the ceiling. "Certain people's trust in me relies very much on my reputation, and Sherlock tends to wade in and gleefully fling balloons full of feces at every possible surface. We finally got him dressed before he was briefed, but it was a near thing. I don't think I could ever have… god, the embarrassment." 

He heard Andrea moving around the room and the sound of a glass being set on his desk. "Perhaps this will help steady your nerves, sir."

He tilted his head and looked down, reaching for the glass of brandy she'd set before him. "You are a saint, my dear." He took a rather larger drink of the alcohol than usual, and it burned going down, but she'd been right. He'd needed it.

"He took the case, then?" She took the empty glass from him, eyeing him critically.

Mycroft nodded. "And, apparently, an ashtray. I believe Watson goaded him into that. There are moments when I rue their meeting."

"You don't think he'll be… distracted by Ms. Adler's various charms?"

Mycroft sat up again, slightly more fortified and a bit calmer. "He's not historically been interested in such things, but one can never be absolutely certain." He shuffled through the files on his desk. "I'm more concerned with the numerous issues we've been turning up regarding the situation at Sherrinford. The entire bloody place was leaking like a sieve."

"Lady Smallwood's been trying to keep a tighter leash on the place since you've replaced all the personnel."

"There's still a great deal to be concerned about."

Anthea checked her phone. "That's very true, sir. I will say that, despite your brother's more infantile tendencies, he does tend to get results. I'm sure within a few days he'll have something for you."

It took closer to a week, with Mycroft spending most of his own time organizing the response to the leaks and information gaps from Sherrinford while desperately avoiding setting foot there himself for fear of revealing too much. He'd not had ten minutes to himself, and hadn't slept more than two hours a night in all that time.

Sherlock's run-ins with the CIA left Mycroft scrambling in an attempt to smooth international waters and try to work out a mutually advantageous approach, but the Americans were having none of it. Adler had certainly got her fingers into entirely too many dangerous pies.

When Mycroft received the text reading **Jumbo Jet, big brother? Dear me.** his entire world collapsed on itself.


	15. Caol Ila

It had been more than a week since Greg had seen Mycroft. He hadn't even heard from the man, nor from his PA, which was unusual to the point of disturbing. Greg knew Mycroft could get too busy to phone, but usually he'd have Andrea call or text him if he was caught up in something. Even just a few lines would have been fine. Greg wasn't exactly the clingy sort who had to be notified of every movement his soulmate made. But this was worrying.

On the third day, he'd called just to check in. By the end of the week he'd called and texted both of them, and left voicemails. Yesterday he'd emailed, as well. Nothing. He was fairly certain that somebody from Mycroft's office would have notified him if the man had actually been hurt or, god forbid, killed somehow.

If he heard nothing by the end of work today, he'd be taking himself over to Mycroft's office to make a face to face inquiry, hoping he wasn't going to be stepping into some actual international crisis when he did, because even though he didn't have a detailed description of Mycroft's work responsibilities, he had some damned good guesses, and "international crisis" was smack in the middle of Mycroft's remit.

If nothing else, Sherlock would have told Greg if there'd been some life-threatening emergency. Even if the brothers weren't best mates, he didn't think John and Sherlock would leave him hanging.

Unless they didn't know what was going on either.

Then again, the whole incident with the CIA agent and Mrs. Hudson's rubbish bins was probably just the tip of the whole bloody iceberg.

Greg signed half a dozen more reports then sat back in his chair tapping his teeth with the end of his biro, trying not to work himself up into some sort of an anxiety vortex. Wouldn't do anybody any good. People's soulmates didn't just vanish on them, and Mycroft always had a reason for everything he did.

So Greg went and got himself another shite coffee from the break room, and a stale donut, and called Donovan in to review the latest cases and get some updates. About half an hour before it was time for their shift to end, there was a knock on his office door.

"Come," he called out, dropping the open file on his desk. Sally stood to open the door. 

It was Andrea, looking about at the end of her rope.

"Donovan, I'll talk with you later." He shooed her out the door as he got up. She closed it behind her. "Good god, Andy, is Mycroft all right? He's not hurt?"

He pulled out the chair for her but she shook her head and didn't sit down. "He's unharmed, but this week has been an unmitigated disaster. I hope you won't object, but I went by the Chief Super's office and requested two days of emergency family leave for you." 

Greg froze. "You said he's not hurt. But he's not okay."

She shook her head no. "I've also taken the liberty of sending someone to your flat to get some clothing for you. Mycroft isn't in London. He's at the country house and, frankly, he's in a terrible state of mind. I can't tell you anything more than that, though he may be able to. That said," she paused and took a steadying breath, "he needs you."

Greg was already grabbing his coat from the hook and locking down his desk. "How long will it take us to get to him?"

"About two hours."

With one last look around the room, Greg slipped his coat on. "Right then. The sooner we're out of here, the sooner we get there."

He left his coffee half finished on his desk as they hurried out the door. "Sally," Greg shouted on the way by, "I'm out for at least two days. Emergency situation. I'll explain what I can when I get back. You're in charge."

"Shit, good luck boss!" Donovan said, looking up from her own desk as Greg and Andrea dashed past.

There wasn't much to talk about on the ride out. Andrea couldn't talk about work and neither of them were in any mood for smalltalk. "How was he when you last saw him?" Greg asked.

"Very unsteady," she said. "I'm concerned he might have tried to drown his sorrows before your arrival. Please, be careful with him. I don't think he'll be volatile; he's more likely to be a bit shocky and quiet."

"Thanks. Good to know."

When they arrived, Andrea led the way. Mycroft's door had layers of security that made Greg's eyes water, but it was probably necessary, considering. The place itself was a mausoleum. 'Country house' was an understatement of epic proportions. She led him down a series of hallways lined with paintings and furniture, pointing out the various rooms as they passed. A few minutes later, he found himself standing in the double doorway of a massive dining hall.

The far end of the table was flanked by suits of horse armour.

At the end, alone, with an empty bottle of something probably much stronger than Greg wanted to think about, sat Mycroft, looking like the world had collapsed on him.

Mycroft's face was in his hands, and he didn't even look up as they entered the room.

Greg approached cautiously, with a quiet, "Mycroft?" His soulmate didn't react. Greg got all the way to the end of the long table and moved the empty bottle and the tumbler away from Mycroft's elbow before he crouched next to him and rested a hand carefully on Mycroft's shoulder. He could smell the booze on him; it was a state he'd never seen the man in before.

He looked up, to find Andrea gone, then turned his attention back to Mycroft. "Mycroft, it's me, Greg. Please, talk to me. I--I know you probably can't tell me what happened, but how can I help?"

Mycroft's body went from deathly still under his hand to barely discernible muscle tremors before he took a shuddering breath and turned, wrapping Greg in his arms. Mycroft clung to him, his breath harsh and rattling, and Greg petted his hair and soothed him like a child, at a loss for anything else to do.

Greg's knees started going on him after about fifteen minutes, so he pulled away and stood, taking Mycroft by the hand, and led him to one of the sitting rooms Andrea had pointed out on the way in. Mycroft remained silent, his chill hand in Greg's as he followed where his soulmate led. 

There was a fire going in the fireplace in the room, and Greg blessed Andrea for it. A small loveseat was placed close by, with some blankets draped over one arm. Greg sat Mycroft on it and wrapped him in one of the blankets, a dark plaid of green and blue with narrow stripes of yellow. He sat next to Mycroft and took the shivering man in his arms, pressing his cheek to Mycroft's temple. The scent of woodsmoke and warm wool was gentle in the air around them, but Mycroft smelled of fear and alcohol, and Greg's heart strained in his chest.

"It's all right," he whispered. "Whatever happened, we'll get through it. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." Mycroft burrowed closer and Greg just held him.

There was a quiet sound in the hallway and when Greg looked up, he saw Andrea moving deeper into the house carrying Greg's gym bag. She paused as she passed the door, pointing at her open mouth, then down the hallway. Going for food, Greg thought, after she dropped his things in one of the guest rooms. God only knew the last time either of those two had eaten. He hoped she was going after some soup, because he really doubted Mycroft would manage anything solid, drunk and upset as he was.

Mycroft didn't speak until Andrea brought them a tray with three bowls of soup and some bread. She set it on a table nearby. Mycroft looked at it and wrinkled his nose, his face twisting in disgust. "I don't think I can eat," he said, his voice rough and shaky.

"Please try," Greg urged. "You need something to settle your stomach after all that booze."

"'Booze,'" Mycroft grumbled. "I'll have you know that was a forty year old Caol Ila."

Greg sighed and shook his head. "Doesn't matter. If you downed the whole bottle, it was booze, and you need to put some food in there before you waste it all bringing it back up, love." He picked up one of the bowls and handed it to Mycroft, who took it gingerly.

Andrea brought one of the little side tables over closer so that Mycroft could set the bowl on it. "Please try, sir. I'm sure your stomach is very unsettled at the moment, but you usually like this."

Mycroft picked up his spoon and swallowed hard, obviously fighting nausea. Greg rubbed his back gently, and it seemed to help. He made sure Mycroft got about half a bowl in him before he ate his own. By the time Greg was done, Mycroft was looking less pallid and shaky, though he was still obviously in his cups, holding desperately onto his formality to keep from being a sloppy drunk. 

"I'll go lay out some paracetamol and a pitcher of water by your bedside," Andrea said. 

"Can you get a basin for him in case he needs it during the night?" Greg asked.

"Of course." She rose and left the room. 

"We should probably get you to bed, Mycroft. I… I've been worried sick about you and I really want to know whatever you can tell me about what happened that has you so upset, but it can wait until tomorrow." Greg helped Mycroft to his feet and tucked a shoulder under Mycroft's arm.

Mycroft was doing a valiant job of holding himself together after the massive amount of whisky he'd put away, but he was wobbly as hell on his feet and leaning heavily on Greg as they walked. "It's up the stairs and in the north wing," he said, gesturing a little too widely with his free hand. Greg followed Mycroft's instructions as they climbed the stairs and found the proper wing. 

"Where's my room?" Greg asked, as they got to the door of Mycroft's.

"J-just across the hall," Mycroft said, hiccuping gently. "But it might… erm… I don't know if I'd be able to stagger to the en suite if I had to get up suddenly. Would--" He took a shaky breath. "Would you be willing to stay with me tonight? I'm sure I'll be mortified in the morning, but for now it seems like a good idea."

"You are going to be deathly hung over in the morning, but yeah. I think that's probably a good idea. We can talk when you're ready, but it might not be until late afternoon. You sleep as long as you need tomorrow, right?"

Mycroft nodded, whimpering, and stumbled into the room. Greg helped him sit on the bed and got him down to his shorts and vest, then rummaged in the frankly alarmingly large walk-in closet for a pair of pyjama bottoms and got Mycroft into those, too. After he'd got Mycroft in bed, he went across the hall to get changed into his own night things and came back to find Mycroft curled into an uncomfortable, moaning ball around one of his pillows.

"Oh, love," Greg murmured, crawling in next to him and pulling him into an embrace. Mycroft curled around him instead of the pillow and Greg cradled him, his soulmate's head on his chest. "I'm so sorry for whatever happened. I'll be right here. I'll take care of you."

Mycroft shuffled a little closer, and Greg turned out the bedside light.


	16. The 1812 Overture

Mycroft woke with a groan and immediately snapped his jaw closed, because the nausea was so bad he was quite certain that he'd lose everything he'd eaten in the last year and a half if he opened his mouth. Something warm moved beneath him, and the movement shattered his control. He gurgled and heard a muffled, "Oh, christ," before his stomach lurched. 

There was a basin under him now, thank god, and he managed to hit it, though he was certain the sick had got splashed everywhere as he heaved. His stomach cramped as he vomited, and, during a gasping pause in the violence of it, he felt himself hauled to his feet, pulled bodily into the en suite, and draped over the toilet, where he once again commenced to lose what was left of his intestinal fortitude in the most graphic and humiliating manner possible.

Finally, agonizing minutes later, Mycroft leaned against the rim of the toilet gasping for breath, the nausea at least temporarily abated. His head was still spinning as Greg handed him a glass of water.

"Here, love, rinse and spit."

He did as he was instructed, but it did little for the acidic bitterness that had lodged itself in his mouth, nose, and throat. Mycroft moaned and rocked on the floor, his arms wrapped around himself. He heard the sound of running water and hazarded a look up, to see Greg rinsing the basin Mycroft had used a few minutes before.

"If you can stand up and lean on me for a few, we both need a shower. And I think we really ought to go sleep in my room tonight when we're done." It was all very matter of fact. Greg didn't seem disgusted, or even particularly upset, just tired and purposeful.

Mycroft nodded, and Greg stripped quietly and efficiently, tossing his soiled clothing in the basket. Wobbling to his feet, he let Greg disrobe him, and they stood under the hot water and washed. It took only a few moments, but Mycroft was still painfully and profoundly drunk. He wished that the first time he'd been naked with Gregory had happened under completely different circumstances and could hardly deal with the shame of it all.

After the shower, Greg wrapped them both in dressing gowns and Mycroft brushed his teeth, leaning on the sink and trying to rid himself of the bitter taste. At least it would fade in time. They made their way carefully across the hall as his housekeeper entered his room to clean the place up, and he wished to god he hadn't had to see her in the hallway.

Greg closed the guest room door behind him and tucked Mycroft into bed again, both of them still naked. Mycroft was far too intoxicated and upset to enjoy it in the least, and he huddled, miserable, in Greg's arms until he fell asleep again.

When he finally woke again, Greg was dressed and sitting near the bed reading by lamplight. The curtains were drawn against the sun, and Mycroft was still dealing with both the fading intoxication and a horrific headache. He groaned, unable to keep silent, and Greg looked over at him. "There you are," he said, his voice soft and careful. "Let's get you some paracetamol and some water. I can get you some toast if you like. It would help your stomach settle after last night."

Mortified memories of the night before flooded Mycroft's mind and he buried his face in his pillow and moaned. "Kill me now. The world would be better off without me," he rasped, his voice muffled by the pillow.

"Hey, now. None of that. I would absolutely not be better off without you," Greg said. Mycroft heard him move, then the mattress shifted and he felt Greg's large, warm hand rubbing slowly between his shoulder blades. "I think my world would crumble if you weren't here."

Greg's hand left his back for a moment, and then Greg put a gentle pressure on Mycroft's shoulder, urging him to turn. Mycroft did, only to find him proffering a glass of water, which Mycroft took, and then a couple of paracetamol tablets. Greg took the glass from him when he finished and then scooped Mycroft up in his arms and held him. "I'm going to go get you some toast. I want you to at least try to eat a little of it, then I'll let you sleep again. If you can sleep through the worst of the hangover, you'll be a lot better off."

Miserable, Mycroft nodded, and he reluctantly released Greg and burrowed back under the covers. The darkness and the silence were the only comfort he had, but they didn't protect him from the deep shame he felt for getting himself into this condition in the first place. Yes, he'd had possibly the worst week of his life, but it didn't excuse his abuse of nearly an entire bottle of forty year old scotch. It was a shameful waste, and his own far-too-human body had betrayed him afterwards. The idea that anyone had seen him in such a state was so far beyond mortifying as to qualify as an entirely different dimension.

When Gregory returned, Mycroft forced himself to consume two slices of lightly buttered toast and the cup of tea with milk and sugar that were placed before him. His stomach initially objected, but eventually settled. His head continued to pound like the cannons in the _1812 Overture_. After a gentle caress of Mycroft's hair, Greg took the plate and cup and left Mycroft to try to sleep. 

Finally, late in the afternoon, Mycroft woke feeling not at all intoxicated. He felt ill enough to wish himself dead, but there was nothing to do for that but wait it out. Greg was nowhere to be seen, so Mycroft wobbled into the en suite in Greg's room and showered, then retired to his own room to dress in something comfortable before going in search of his soulmate. He knew his behaviour would require explanation, but it was not a conversation he was in any way looking forward to.


	17. A Change of Circumstance

Andrea showed him around the house late that morning. "The north wing is his private space," Andrea said, "and his security staff stays in the south wing when he's in residence. If I'm needed, I stay there as well. On those few occasions when his brother visits, he's usually in the north wing, but he's a disruptive influence."

Greg sighed. "Yeah, I could see that."

"He's been… better, since you've been in their lives. They both have. I don't think anyone's properly thanked you for that."

He looked at her and they paused in the conservatory, among the warmth and the mass of green plants and the scent of hothouse flowers. "Nobody needs to thank me, but I appreciate the thought."

"I've never seen him like this before. This week has been... " She shook her head. "I wish I could tell you. I'm glad you're here. He's glad you're here."

"I feel helpless," Greg said, sitting on one of the woven wicker chairs under a potted palm. "I don't even know what's wrong, so how can I help?"

"Just being here is a help to all of us." She sat with him and rested her face in her hands. "I wish we'd been able to bring you in sooner, but there was just no time, and no bandwidth at all for communication with anyone not directly involved in the situations."

Situations. More than one. No wonder both of them were so shaken. "I don't think he'll be up until afternoon. He felt better after I fed him some breakfast, but he's going to have a horrible head for a couple of days. Seen it before. That much booze, it takes a while to get out of your system."

Andrea nodded. "We'll keep things as quiet and private for him as we can. The office is well aware that he's not to be disturbed until at least the middle of next week unless certain specific incidents occur. He rarely takes time off, and this has certainly warranted some time away. I'll make sure the staff keeps to the south wing unless something urgent and unavoidable comes up. You won't see us."

"Good to know. Thank you."

Greg went up to his room to check on Mycroft again, to find him still huddled under the blankets and snoring softly, so he left him undisturbed. The more sleep the man got, the better off he'd be when he finally woke. 

With little better to do, and nothing he could say to anyone at work that wasn't, "I'll be back when I'm back," Greg wandered the grounds for a while, conscious of the security following him just out of sight. Eventually, that got to be too much, so he went back inside and found himself the most comfortable room he could in Mycroft's wing and cracked open a book from the extensive library in the house.

Late that afternoon, Mycroft appeared at the door looking badly used and exhausted. Greg rose and went to him, offering an arm in support as he led him to a comfortably stuffed leather couch, where they both sat.

He watched as Mycroft, dressed in a loose, warm-looking tweed suit, tried to collect himself. "I fear I owe you an apology," Mycroft finally said.

Greg shook his head. "No. Whatever it was that upset you that much, it had to have been bad. And I can't really blame you for diving into a bottle to try to blot it out for a little while. Long as you don't fall in again, you'll be okay."

Mycroft leaned against him, seeking comfort, and Greg put an arm around him. "Had I been given any time whatsoever to do so, I would have called you, or at least had a message sent. I wanted to. I regret that it wasn't possible."

"You're here now. You're okay. I was worried, but I knew that things like this were possible from the beginning."

"What has Andrea told you?"

"Nothing. Just that there was some kind of disaster and that you needed me. So here I am."

Mycroft took Greg's hand and squeezed it. "Unfortunately, your clearance isn't high enough for any details, but what I can tell you is this. I recently gave a case to Sherlock. You were peripherally involved."

"The CIA bloke?"

Mycroft nodded. His voice shook as he spoke. "Just so. Some extremely sensitive information was being held by a person of interest. It turned out that this person had a fair amount of other, equally sensitive information from a rather large number of other people. Some of it -- involving a counter-terrorism project that I had been overseeing for several years -- was… released." He took a sharp breath and his eyes squeezed shut. His hand tightened in Greg's again. "Ultimately, several hundred people died."

"Oh hell."

"That… is not the worst of it."

Greg shuddered. "Not?"

"No." Mycroft raised his eyes to Greg's, haunted. "Where I had previously suspected my sister's involvement, it has now been confirmed in the most distressing manner possible. After every administrator, guard, and staff member of Sherrinford from the Governor down to the janitors were replaced, Euros has gone missing."

Greg stiffened. " _What_?"

With a shiver, Mycroft lowered his face and nodded. "Yesterday afternoon her cell was found to be empty. It was supposed to have been on video monitoring at all times." He shook his head, unable to look at Greg. "She's gone. She's on the wind. Sherlock is aware, and my people are at this moment frantically searching for her, but her whereabouts are currently unknown."

"How safe are you here?" Greg asked.

"You might ask, how safe are _we_ here. I have no doubt that she knows about you, and I fear for you more than I do for myself." Greg's head spun a little at that. "She has no conscience, Gregory, no moral compass whatsoever. She is intent on me and on Sherlock and if she sets her mind upon it, she will not hesitate to harm or to kill you, or John, to force our attention to whatever point she has chosen."

"You're going to argue for me to stay here until she's found, aren't you?"

Mycroft sighed and curled himself into Greg's embrace, shivering slightly. "You will doubtless be surprised, but no. If she wishes to get in here, she will find a way to do so. You'll be no safer here than you would be at work. However, when we return to London, I would ask that you relocate to my flat, as it is more secure than this building and we would have a better chance to keep you safe when you are not at work, surrounded by your fellow officers."

Well, Mycroft had been right about that; Greg was nearly shocked that he wasn't trying to stuff him in a basement bunker somewhere with armed guards at the door. "You want me to move in with you." He held Mycroft closer, eyes closed, uncertain.

Mycroft's voice was soft when he responded. "I had hoped that my eventual request would have occurred under far more natural and positive circumstances, but my life has never gone according to plan."

"Mycroft--"

" _Please_ , Gregory. I lost what little dignity I had last night. I implore you, do not make me beg for this." Greg could hear the strain and the fear in Mycroft's voice and he knew that he could never refuse him.

"I will," Greg said, nodding. "Look, if you want to send your people to clear my place out while we're here, if that'll make you feel better, then do it. I don't know what I'm going to do about my lease--"

Mycroft cut him off, his relief palpable. "It will be dealt with."

"All right, then. I guess as of right now, I'm living with you." He took Mycroft's face in his hands and rested his forehead on Mycroft's. "For what it's worth, I wish it had been under better circumstances, too. But the only thing I regret about this is how awful things have been for you recently and how bloody scared you are right now. If this will help, then I'm in. You know I'd do damned near anything for you."

There was a long pause, and Mycroft's breath quickened, a bit ragged. "I still feel utterly horrid but… Gregory, if you were ready… if you…"

Greg kissed him gently. "You want me." He'd been hesitant, and Mycroft hadn't ever pushed, but maybe it was time.

Mycroft nodded, not looking at him. "Very much so."

"Then yes," Greg whispered.

Mycroft pulled him into a shuddering hug and Greg pressed kisses to his temple and into his hair, trying to surround his soulmate with all the love he had in him. After a few minutes like that, Mycroft stood and offered his hand to Greg, who took it and followed him up to Mycroft's room, which had been quite thoroughly cleaned and aired out.

When they got to Mycroft's room, Greg closed the door behind them. "At some point, you may have to, ah, give me a little instruction," he said, embarrassed.

Mycroft sighed. "I'm honestly not feeling up to much, so I doubt there will be anything you've not done, either with a woman or to your own body."

"Ah, yeah, there is that."

Mycroft opened his arms. "Come here." Greg stepped into his embrace and held on. "If anything makes you uncomfortable, just say so. I've no desire to force you into anything, nor to leave you with regrets."

Greg didn't think it would be possible to have regrets, so he tilted his face up to Mycroft's and kissed him, softly at first, then with increasing passion. Their mouths opened, tongues caressing, and Greg finally let himself accept where this could go. 

They'd kissed before, plenty of times, and Greg had always enjoyed it. Last night he'd slept naked with Mycroft in his arms, feeling nothing but protective of the man. The warmth of it had been immensely comforting, and god, he had missed that kind of skin contact for ages. Greg would never have described himself as a hedonist, but he desperately needed the sensuality of that skin to skin closeness.

Mycroft's hands caressed and explored his body, slow and hesitant, completely outside of Greg's clothing. Greg let his own hands wander, down Mycroft's sides and along his hips, eventually sliding over the curve of his arse and pulling him closer. He could feel that Mycroft was half hard in his trousers, and Greg was getting there as well. It wasn't like he'd never imagined Mycroft, or making love to him. He'd wanked to the idea more than once and it had been good. Carefully, he tugged at Mycroft's shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his trousers, and slid his hand beneath the cloth, fingers trailing on the warm skin at the small of his back and up his spine just a bit. 

Mycroft sighed into Greg's mouth and settled into him, almost liquid as he relaxed. When Mycroft's hands found their way under Greg's shirt, Greg sighed, too. God, it felt so good to be touched again, by someone who wanted him, someone who loved him. He couldn't even remember properly how that felt, because the last few years with Karen had been so fraught, and the emotions so jagged.

"Let's get our kit off, why don't we?" Greg whispered between kisses.

"Mmm. I concur."

They went slowly, both enjoying each other, though Greg was very conscious of poor Mycroft's headache. He treated his soulmate as gently as he could, knowing he was more than a little fragile today. Mycroft tugged the covers of his bed back, and the two of them slid between the sheets, legs tangled together. Greg ran his hand slowly from Mycroft's belly up his chest, just feeling the texture of Mycroft's auburn body hair under his palm. Mycroft drew a shuddering breath and caressed Greg's arse cheeks, rocking his hips up against Greg's, their now-hard cocks rubbing together, the skin hot and velvety soft.

"Is this... is this all right?" Mycroft gasped, running his leg up and down Greg's, caressing him with the tender inside of his thigh and the soft sole of his foot.

Greg pushed down against him, wrapping Mycroft in both arms. "Oh, god, yes. It's fantastic. You're fantastic." He kissed Mycroft, hungry for him, rubbing their entire bodies together, wanting nothing more than to touch the man with every inch of his skin.

He could do this. He could have this. Even if he wasn't ready to suck Mycroft's cock just yet, he knew he would be. Just the way they felt together, the way his heart beat so hard and fast at the warmth and the friction between them, it was all he'd ever dreamed of. It was easy and loving and tender and they rocked together, breathing into each other's mouths. Mycroft's hands pulled him closer with every thrust, and as Greg's arousal intensified, the thrusts began growing slick with their sweat and with the fluid leaking from both of them.

Mycroft gasped into Greg's ear, his voice rough and astonished. "I love you. I need you. Please, please, stay with me."

"I'm here, love. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I've got you."

His hands slid up Greg's back and clutched at his shoulders, giving Mycroft leverage as his thrusts deepened, and Greg moved with him, matching his passion and his desperation until Mycroft finally came with a shudder and a hoarse cry. The slick of it made everything wetter and slipperier and Greg gasped at just how fucking good it felt, riding the high of his own impending orgasm. Finally, a few moments later, his own release hit with a wave of pleasure that left him gasping, floating in a haze of adoration and wonder.

Panting, he rested the tip of his nose on Mycroft's and gazed into his lover's grey blue eyes. "Fantastic," he whispered.

Mycroft's face was open and astonished, filled with love, and he pulled Greg into a deep, sweet kiss that seemed endless. "I am so very fortunate that you are mine," he murmured, nuzzling Greg's face. "You are a miracle, Gregory."

"I think we both got one, love."

"Mmmmm." 

A little while later, Mycroft finally shifted. "This is going to get rather unpleasant if we leave it longer, my dear. Up you get." He patted Greg's bum with one hand and Greg giggled, feeling young and happy. "Time to clean up a bit."

Reluctant and a bit lazy, Greg grumbled but complied. "After that, we should get some food, if you think your stomach can handle it. Maybe tuck you back into bed for a nap."

Mycroft tilted his head at Greg, one eyebrow raised.

"To _sleep_ , you. I can see your head still hurts, and don't try to tell me it doesn't."

"Oh, very well," Mycroft muttered.

Greg grinned. "And then, maybe more of that later, after you've been a good boy and had your nap."

Mycroft, returning the grin, shook his head and chuckled. "Only you could get away with calling me a 'good boy,' Gregory. But you do have a point. My head's not as bad as it was a couple of hours ago, but it's still atrocious."

They went into the loo; Greg got them a wet flannel and started cleaning Mycroft off. "You had enough, it'll probably be that way tomorrow still."

"The voice of experience?"

Greg laughed. "Yeah, sadly. I was a pretty normal lad growing up. Don't know anyone who didn't get utterly pissed at some point and spend a couple of days swearing never to do it again."

Mycroft draped himself over Greg's back, arms around his chest, as Greg cleaned himself off in front of the sink. "I wish I'd met you when we were young. Perhaps…"

"We're here now. We're together now. That's what counts."

"Yes," Mycroft whispered. "It is.


	18. Pressure Points

They spent three days at Mycroft's country house before returning to London, and Mycroft had spent most of that time with a massive but slowly fading hangover. Gregory's slowly growing acceptance of the idea of physical intimacy between them was encouraging, and Mummy had always told Mycroft that 'good things come to those who wait.' Mycroft was well acquainted with waiting. He was an extraordinarily patient man when the situation warranted, and Greg was worth every moment of it.

After that first night, they continued to share a bed and, although Greg now had a bedroom of his own in Mycroft's London flat, it was more a personal space in case either of them needed solitude than a place where he would spend most of his nights. Another room was designated Greg's office, where he could do his work or relax.

Fitting Gregory into his life turned out to be rather easier than actually fitting his things into Mycroft's flat. The project was slightly awkward, given that Greg had furniture, books, and other items, not just clothing. "Well, I suppose the furniture I can sell," he said. "I'm not that attached to most of it, really. But my books and stuff, we do actually need to find some room for that."

They surveyed the surroundings and spent several hours discussing how to make it less Mycroft's and more theirs. He found himself surprisingly more attached to how his flat had been laid out than he'd anticipated, being very much a creature of habit.

"You do have the office we've designated," Mycroft said.

Greg nodded, pensive. "Yeah, and it's fantastic, but…" he gestured around him, "everything else here is very much yours. I feel like I don't really fit in with it all. I'm not saying we have to change a lot, but I'd like to have some of my photos and stuff in the other rooms. I don't want to feel like you're isolating everything about me except my body into two rooms in this huge flat."

"That is a perfectly understandable request," Mycroft said. "I have a suggestion, which you are welcome to reject, as it may be a bit much at this stage."

"Hmm?"

"If you would prefer, I could sell this flat and we could purchase another together. It would--"

Greg's eyes were wide and distressed. "Mycroft, I couldn't afford to help you pay for a place even vaguely like this. How could--"

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "No, Gregory. I would be more than willing to pay for it and have you listed as the co-owner. That is not at issue. It's very much more a matter of my being entirely too attached to the current arrangement of this flat and my unfortunate reluctance to rearrange things after so many years of habit. I would genuinely find it much easier to start from a blank slate in order to give you both a choice about the style and location of our abode, and a chance for us to cooperate when it comes to how it is outfitted with both of us in mind."

Greg stood, silent, considering. He leaned against the library's door jamb with his arms crossed, thinking. Mycroft waited, not wanting to push too much. Finally, Greg sat in one of the library chairs. "I don't want to feel like I've forced you out of your flat, love. I feel like nothing I do is going to be the right thing. Should I make you change everything about a place you're comfortable in, or should I make you move to an entirely new, unfamiliar place just so I'm more comfortable? Do I try to pay half a mortgage that I'll never be able to afford, or do I feel like your kept man?" He sighed, elbows on his knees, and hung his head. "How do I even fit into your life? Yeah, we're soulmates, but when we were living apart, it wasn't… maybe it wasn't quite so messy, figuring out how we fit. We both had our own space and it was okay."

Greg looked up at him, distressed. "I love you, but I don't want to feel like a burden. I don't want to feel like I did with… with her, like nothing I could do was ever good enough."

Mycroft went to him, offering a hand, and pulled him to his feet. He took Greg in his arms and said, "You are not a burden. You will _never_ be a burden to me. I'm offering to do this because I believe it will leave both of us feeling more comfortable once everything is settled. There will be some temporary disturbance, certainly, but I would like to think that when we've finished, both of us will be pleased with the results. As to money, it's unnecessary for you to contribute, but you may do so to whatever measure makes you comfortable. I don't need the help at all, but I don't want you to feel 'kept'. I want you to feel treasured, because that is what you are. You are _loved_ Gregory, and that will not change regardless of the decisions _we_ make."

Greg's arms tightened around him and they were both silent for a while. "You're more than I deserve," he finally murmured.

"That's ridiculous." Mycroft snorted. "I could say the same, that I don't deserve a good man like you. Let's skip the whole debate, shall we?" 

Greg looked up at him and smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, okay. We really are a pair, aren't we?"

"So," Mycroft said, "tell me about your needs and desires for our new flat."

They talked for days about it between work and interruptions. Lists were made, debated, and rearranged. A kitchen with natural light was one of Gregory's demands. "This one's a bloody tomb, Mycroft. No wonder you never cook in here." An estate agent was contacted and properties were viewed, most of which left Greg gaping. To Mycroft, it was just another task that needed to be done, and better soon, so that they could be resettled quickly.

Due to the security situation with Euros, Mycroft had made sure that the Met had been suitably informed of the increased threat to his soulmate's life, and that both Greg and Sergeant Donovan were subsequently authorized to carry firearms for his defense. Greg had not initially been best pleased, but he understood both Mycroft's fears and the necessity, given that the other option was demanding that he not go out on calls at all and remain more or less safe in his office. Mycroft didn't like pushing Gregory, but his own fear and justified paranoia were very difficult to dismiss.

Sherlock was contrite about his role in the Bond Air disaster by the time Mycroft had returned to work and was cooperating in the search for their sister. It was a relief to have his assistance for once, without having to constantly struggle for every concession. A more difficult issue was dealing with Ms. Adler.

"I don't know who she is," Irene told him. "She keeps herself isolated, so I've never seen her, only spoken to her a few times on the phone. But she'd offered to… compensate me for certain types of information and to protect me from their various consequences. Unfortunately, the longer I dealt with her, the less at ease I was about the whole thing."

"We do. I can assure you that she isn't stable," Mycroft said. "Your unease is both understandable and warranted. She is volatile and extremely dangerous. We are currently attempting to locate and isolate her. If you would be willing to work with us, my people might be able to afford you a certain amount of insulation. We could potentially use your contact with her to lay a trail, as it were. Bait her into the open."

Irene leaned back in her chair, lounging like a panther. "You can't guarantee my safety."

"I would note that neither can you." He folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward slightly. "If we work together, however, it increases your survivability. And when this is over, we can relocate you, if you wish. Should you choose, we might also be interested in gaining your cooperation on other projects."

"Recruiting me, you mean."

Mycroft shrugged. "We do have need of all sorts."

"I'll give it some thought." She smiled a predatory smile.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "If it's any help, we do think Sherlock would make a much better Judas goat. He's more keen on the project than I am, frankly." Given his preference, Mycroft would far rather that Sherlock be nowhere in the vicinity of their sister or her influences. But using Sherlock as bait had been his brother's own suggestion, and Mycroft, much as he wanted to, couldn't just dismiss the possibility out of hand.

"Hmm. That does sound like a slightly safer deal on my end. Little brother's a bit too pretty to die, though. It would be a pity." She sounded bored, though Mycroft knew she was worried.

"That is rather the whole idea of the Judas goat. It leads the others to the slaughter but escapes the consequences itself."

Her smirk broadened, more genuine this time. "Well, that would be the ideal, wouldn't it?"

"Your ability to see through certain aspects of her camouflage would make you a valuable ally, Ms. Adler. But time is of the essence. I need your answer now. Plans are in motion, and I can add your cooperation to them if we move immediately."

"And if I don't?"

"We leave you to her. Rest assured, she will eventually tire of you and your life will be forfeit in what will no doubt be an extremely unpleasant manner. We've seen her victims before." Not that Mycroft had any desire to remember the horrifying details, but Irene needed to be persuaded that cooperation was in her best interest. "I could show you redacted information that would curdle your blood."

She crossed her legs, telegraphing her unease. "Who is she?"

"You have no need to know that information at this juncture." Mycroft was stern and professionally detached in his response. Another pressure point in their devil's bargain.

Irene sneered. "You don't actually know who she is, do you?" A stab in the dark, but one which had struck entirely the wrong target.

Mycroft's lip curled and he put on his best Bond villain demeanour. "On the contrary, Ms. Adler. I know her _very_ well. I know, better than _anyone_ , what she is capable of."

"This is personal," Irene whispered, startled, her eyes wide.

"More than you can possibly imagine." He went for the throat. "I could describe in detail what happened to her last known victim. An unaltered video record exists, should you wish a private viewing. It is not for the faint of heart. I shouldn't like to imagine you suffering a similar fate." He leaned back and opened his folded hands, spread with his palms out in a vaguely welcoming gesture, hinting at his generosity. "Or you could work with us. Your choice, of course."

She stood and approached his desk, holding out her hand. "You have a deal, Mycroft."

He took her hand, sealing their accord.


	19. Centre of Gravity

Six weeks of cases, and Greg having to always carry a firearm had left him stressed and a little paranoid. He didn't like having to carry. The weight of it under his arm bothered him. He practiced religiously at the range on a weekly basis because the last thing he wanted was some poor random bystander getting killed by a stray bullet from his pistol if he ever had to use the damned thing. He insisted Sally come to the range with him as well, and by now it was something of a ritual with them.

Mycroft had finally bought a flat three weeks ago, too, in both their names. Greg was gasping at how much it cost, and the location. He'd tried to argue for something smaller and simpler, but Mycroft had insisted that his security needs were better served in the kinds of locations he was more used to. That, Greg had to admit, was true enough. It wasn't like his old place was really secure. Anybody could ring from the street looking for a random person at home and get let in by claiming it was the post with a package for one of the neighbors. Not really the sort of thing that would keep psychotic murdering siblings out of the stairwell. Mycroft actually needed building security, and CCTV, and round the clock staff just in case his lunatic sister showed up. Or foreign assassins. Greg hadn't ruled those out, either.

On the days when they had a little time off together, they'd gone looking for furniture they could both live with. Mycroft had made a lot more concessions there, going for things Greg thought comfortable, rather than Mycroft's usual elegant and dignified. The flat was airier and better lit than Mycroft's old place, and there were even windows in the kitchen, overlooking a green space below. He'd questioned the need for six bedrooms, but with one for each of them, and office for each, and a guest room in case Sherlock for some reason showed up off his tits, Greg supposed it made a certain amount of sense.

The bedroom they shared, nominally Mycroft's, was a lot like his old place. Mycroft's office had pretty much been moved over from the old flat to the new one unchanged. Aside from a sitting room that Mycroft said he might occasionally have to entertain professional guests in, the rest of the flat was comfortable and actually rather homey for Greg, and he felt a lot more like this was _his_ home, too, now. Despite his initial hesitance, he was glad they'd done it this way. Bits of both of their lives mixed and mingled on the walls and the bookshelves. Although their tastes were different, the new place felt balanced in a sort of harmony that would have surprised him when he'd first met Mycroft.

One afternoon, Greg met Mycroft at the Strangers' Room at the Diogenes for a briefing on the Euros situation. The beautiful, dark-haired woman sitting like a queen in one of the chairs was distracting, but Greg didn't interrupt the conversation she and Mycroft were having.

When he entered, she looked up, her glance appraising. "Oh, Mycroft, I didn't think you'd go for anything quite so _rugged_."

Mycroft's face tightened. "Gregory, this is Irene Adler. Ms. Adler, this is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Ms. Adler is one of our operatives for this mission."

"Ms. Adler." Greg reached out and shook her hand and she eyed him up and down like he was a slab of beef. She slithered up out of her seat like a snake uncoiling and got into his personal space.

"Inspector," she purred. Greg took an unconscious step back. She looked over at Mycroft with hooded eyes. "While neither of you are exactly my type, it would be really delicious to watch you fuck him over that table."

Mycroft choked and Greg could feel himself blushing bright red. "Ms. Adler!" Mycroft barked. Greg backpedaled away from the woman quickly, ending up next to Mycroft, who stepped in front of him. Adler grinned a sharp, predatory grin and Greg broke out in a sweat. "Let us focus on the task at hand," Mycroft growled.

Adler chuckled. "It looks like you're not really made of ice after all. So protective. One would imagine it being the other way 'round, really, given how sturdy he is. And that hair. Who wouldn't love to run their fingers through it."

"Can we just get on with whatever it is I was called here for?" Greg asked, deeply uncomfortable with the whole situation. "I've got a case to work on and I don't have all day for your banter." He took a seat near Mycroft's.

"I concur," Mycroft said, glaring at Adler. He sat by Greg's side, not taking his eyes off the woman for a moment as he outlined the situation.

Greg listened, but he was profoundly distracted by the image her words had evoked in his mind. His relationship with Mycroft had been growing more intensely sexual as they spent more time together. He'd discovered that he really enjoyed sucking Mycroft's cock, though the taste of cum didn't appeal to him. He wasn't able to get the image out of his head of Mycroft moaning and writhing while Greg fucked him, nor the pleasure of Mycroft's tight, hot body around his cock. And now he'd been slapped in the face with his own growing desire to have Mycroft bugger him and he worried his cheeks were glowing red enough to heat the entire bloody room.

He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as Mycroft and Irene discussed the setup being planned to draw Euros out into the open. It took a huge force of will to drag his focus from his internal torment back to the task at hand, and he knew that both of them were well aware that he was hard as a rock in his trousers now. Mycroft was kind enough not to say anything, but Irene's smirk just made him more uncomfortable.

Their meeting was two hours of utter torture, but Greg played his part and asked the appropriate questions when they were required. When Adler was escorted out of the room by Andrea, Greg heaved a relieved sigh and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his wrist.

"I do apologize for that, Gregory. Her behavior was inexcusable."

"That was… God, I've never had anything quite like _that_ happen before. But, ah, I think I'm gonna need a few minutes in the loo before I can walk out of here with what little dignity I have left intact."

Mycroft leaned in close, murmuring in Greg's ear. "You found the idea of me taking you that distracting?" Greg nodded, not daring to say anything. "Hmm. Perhaps tonight we might indulge you."

Greg whimpered and choked out, "Oh, fuck. Yes. Please."

With a warm, rumbling chuckle, Mycroft slid his fingers into Greg's hair and pulled him close, kissing him thoroughly. "Go," he whispered. He ran his hand down Greg's side to rest on his hip. "Take care of yourself, and I'll see you at home tonight."

Greg fled, hoping that a fast wank in the gent's would be enough to get him through the rest of the day.

He got home before Mycroft that evening, having managed to survive an afternoon of truly egregious paperwork and distraction. By the time he walked in the door, he was in desperate need of a beer. When Mycroft finally arrived, about twenty minutes later, Greg was feeling a little bit less muddled and desperate.

"I am genuinely sorry for the events of our meeting today," Mycroft said. "Ms. Adler is a professional dominatrix and it amuses her to play psychological games with her opponents. She intended to unsettle us and, to a fair extent, she succeeded."

Greg got up and went to meet him, wrapping his soulmate in his arms and just letting himself soak in Mycroft's warmth. "How did she know about us? I know you'd never have told her."

Mycroft's arms curled around Greg and held him close. "Your smile at me when you entered the room. My own unconscious response to you. She's an astute student of body language and attraction. She would have to be, given her profession. Much as I try to control it, I can't ignore your light when you walk into a room." He kissed Greg's temple, nuzzling his hair. "And, if you are truly ready to take that step tonight, my dear," he purred, "I will make it _extremely_ pleasurable for you."

Greg shivered. "I know it's taken a while, but yeah, I am. I think I was when I actually saw how you responded to me with my cock buried deep inside you -- how you couldn't get enough, how you begged for it, how you gasped my name."

Mycroft nodded. "Would you prefer some dinner first, or shall we retire to the bedroom?"

Eyes shut tight, Greg clung to Mycroft for a moment. "I don't think I could get through dinner right now."

"Then come with me," Mycroft whispered, "and I shall take care of you."

He followed Mycroft, eager and wanting. The edge of nerves he felt only served to sharpen the intensity of Greg's desire. In the bedroom, slowly, gently, they undressed, revealing each other with kisses and caresses. Mycroft always made him feel so _wanted_ and the man's laser focus resting entirely on Greg made him feel ten feet tall.

They kissed, lying together, with Mycroft's body covering Greg's. Their heat, the roughness of their body hair, and the smooth softness of skin set Greg's nerves aflame. Mycroft slid down Greg's body, licking and sucking at his hard, aching cock and the vulnerable bollocks hanging below. Mycroft breathed him in like smoke and slid the slick pad of his thumb over Greg's hole. There was a soft, squelching sound of lube being squeezed from the bottle, then the cool, slippery trace of it between his cheeks and Mycroft caressed him, barely pressing in, until Greg was writhing with it. "Bear down on me," Mycroft murmured, and he went back to sucking Greg's cock as he applied slow, careful pressure with one finger. The sensation of the slow penetration was strange and uncomfortable, but not painful, and he made himself relax into it with Mycroft's gentle motion in and out.

It took long, trembling minutes before Mycroft's finger was all the way in, and he waited while Greg adjusted to it, then twisted it gently, letting Greg feel the drag and the sensual friction of it. Greg moaned and wriggled as Mycroft's finger moved and his mouth kept up its slow, wet suction on Greg's cock. More lube and another finger joined the first, exploring with languid confidence, until there was pressure in a place that rocked Greg's body with pleasure. His cock jerked and he gasped, his fingers fisting in the sheets. Mycroft rubbed in little circles and Greg groaned, loud and desperate, moving his hips to get more of the sensation. He could feel his nipples tighten and tingle with his intensifying arousal and he shuddered.

Mycroft hummed his pleasure with Greg's cock in his mouth, and Greg could feel his soulmate rutting against the mattress as Greg himself so often did while he eased Mycroft into readiness for their joining. "Please," Greg moaned, "god, that feels so good." He opened his legs further, inviting Mycroft in, vulnerable and aching for more.

Mycroft slid his fingers from Greg's body, careful and attentive, then crawled up his body to kiss him deeply. Greg could taste the traces of himself on Mycroft's tongue and he tangled his arms and legs about his lover, pulling him in to have the whole length of their bodies pressed together, moving like liquid arousal. It was good, and Greg's cock approved, but it wasn't enough. He tugged at Mycroft's hip with one calf, pulling him closer and urging him to enter, to take, to shatter Greg with pleasure.

Taking the hint, Mycroft moved Greg's hips so he could bring them into position. With one hand, he steadied himself, and Greg panted and bore down as Mycroft pressed slowly inside. 

It was intense, overwhelming. Mycroft felt so much bigger than he did in Greg's hand, but god, he needed this. They were so close and Greg trembled as Mycroft slid deeper, whispering Greg's name like a prayer. Finally, Mycroft was in him so deep that Greg could feel his bollocks against his arse, slapping gently as Mycroft began to thrust. It was strange at first, and Greg felt too tight, his body burning with his need, until Mycroft hit that spot again and Greg threw his head back, howling out his pleasure.

Mycroft laughed, moving deeper, harder, more intense, and Greg's mind and his body combusted, every nerve dissolving into pleasure as his lover took him. God, no wonder Mycroft always looked like that. Greg's head flailed back and forth on the pillow and his fingers dug into Mycroft's shoulders as Mycroft fucked him. Greg's cock was near to bursting as Mycroft dragged him closer and closer to the edge, kissing his neck and sucking at the skin of Greg's shoulder. When Mycroft's fingers found one of Greg's nipples and pinched, twisting slightly, Greg came like a bloody firehose had been turned on, gasping and moaning, his body convulsing with it. Mycroft held him as he shook apart, still moving within him, whispering nonsense and love into his ear.

As Greg slowly came down from the massive body rush, he could feel Mycroft stiffen and come as well, shuddering in Greg's arms.

Exhausted, they both collapsed. Greg groaned, trying to move his leg before his hip cramped, and Mycroft helped to ease the angle of it. Lungs straining, Greg lay beneath his lover, completely spent. Mycroft's hand stroked his side absently, gentling him down from the peak as his softening cock slipped from Greg's body. 

They kissed, wordless, just caressing each other, and then they rested.


	20. Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

Mycroft's afternoon had not been going well. Three days ago, one of his people had vanished. Harold Olsen had been working a counterterrorism project focused on a NeoNazi organization out of Sweden, and had reported the discovery of a counterfeiting operation the week before. Andrea had just brought Mycroft the file on Operation Snowblind and, the longer Mycroft looked at it, the more he suspected that Olsen was dead. The question Mycroft now had was whether Olsen's cover had been blown, or whether he'd made some kind of misstep and incurred the wrath of either the counterfeiters or the terrorists. A third possibility was that he'd somehow been caught in the crossfire between the two factions. It was imperative to find out so that appropriate steps could be taken regarding both threats.

Sherlock, working with Irene Adler on the Euros issue, was far too busy to call in on the matter. Their sister had well and truly gone to ground and had not been seen since her escape from Sherrinford. Adler had been briefly in contact, but that had been over a month ago. There were still hints of her influence in the threads of Moriarty's criminal network. It may never have been Moriarty's at all, but rather Euros working through him.

Unfortunately, everything at Mycroft's level qualified as some sort of national security priority. While he was primarily an analyst, he also organized and assigned teams to various projects of international import. Euros and her crime network, a NeoNazi threat, and currency counterfeiters all registered high on his scale of items requiring action, so he couldn't justify pulling Sherlock off of Project East Wind to deal with either of the other two.

"Do we have anyone at all we can assign to Snowblind this week?" he asked, handing the file back to Andrea.

She tilted her head, considering. "I believe we have two, but we'll have to reassign them from other projects, and embedding them into Snowblind will take time."

"Our priority is to follow Snowblind. Finding Olsen will have to take a back seat for the moment. If he's dead, chasing after him isn't going to do any of our ongoing projects any good. He'll turn up eventually. Bring me the personnel files for your suggestions and then arrange for briefings for them the day after tomorrow. Let's see if they'll be up to snuff."

"Of course, sir."

Two weeks later, he was alerted that Scotland Yard had found a body that evidence suggested might be his missing operative. As luck would have it, Gregory's team was on the case, and Sherlock had actually been the one to alert Mycroft to the situation. Collecting Andrea and his driver, Mycroft made his way to the scene -- a foundry by the river.

The night was overcast but not yet raining. Clouds hung low in an orange-tinted industrial sky. Mycroft took his umbrella and Andrea followed him to the edge of the taped-off area, where he was met by a constable. Sherlock spotted them and waved them through.

"Mycroft, I suspect this is one of yours."

"So you said when you texted," Mycroft replied, wrinkling his nose at the scent of molten metal in the air. "If it is, this will clear up a concern we've had for more than a month now." They followed Sherlock over to where Greg was directing the forensics team, Donovan at his side. Anderson, in his Tyvek suit, was bagging evidence under the brightly lit shelter that had been erected against the impending rain. John Watson was leaning over the body along with one of the coroners from NSY.

Greg looked up when Mycroft approached. "Sherlock said this might be one of yours."

"How long has he been dead, approximately?" Mycroft asked. 

"At least three weeks, I'd say, from the decay," Sherlock said. "The odours from the foundry no doubt covered the stench for quite some time."

"That is about the right time frame." Mycroft glanced around. "The foundry could also be a cover for part of the counterfeiting operation."

"Counterfeiters?" Greg asked. When Mycroft nodded, Greg turned to Donovan. "Sally, have 'em check the foundry for minting equipment, just in case."

"Right, gov." She turned away to relay instructions on her radio.

One of the Tyvek-suited technicians approached, carrying something in her hand. Donovan, looking up, took two steps toward Greg and shouted, "She's got a gun!"

The entire scene burst into chaos. The woman looked at Mycroft and smirked. "This is all your fault, Big Brother." She raised the pistol and aimed at Greg, who went for his own pistol. Sally, a little younger and faster, already had hers in hand, and moved to intercept.

Not pausing for thought, Mycroft drew his sword from his umbrella and rushed toward them as two simultaneous shots were fired. Greg went down on his knees and then fell with a grunt, dropping his pistol. Sally stumbled, and Euros turned toward Mycroft, whose heart had frozen in his chest. As Donovan tried to right herself, she staggered at Euros. Mycroft, now close enough, lunged, leading with his sword. Euros fired another shot but it went wide when Sally slammed into her. Instead of striking Mycroft full in the chest, it burned a line of fire down his sword arm spraying a gout of blood as it opened his vein.

Terrified and in agony, he pushed with all his weight and drove the sword between her ribs as she staggered from Sally's blow. He gave the blade a vicious twist, hoping to do as much damage as possible so she wouldn't get another shot off before he lost too much blood and passed out.

Euros, with a puzzled expression on her face, muttered, "Interesting," dropped to her knees, and crumpled like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Mycroft fell next to her as Sherlock and Andrea reached out for him, catching him before he hit the ground.

John bolted across the scene, making for Greg, who was lying curled on his side, struggling to breathe. Shocked and desperate, Mycroft cried out and tried to go to him as his arm sprayed blood everywhere. Sherlock, and Andrea held him back.

"Hold still, you bloody idiot," Sherlock snapped, pale as a ghost. Andrea tugged at Mycroft's tie and yanked it away from his neck. A moment later, she was knotting it tightly around his biceps, binding it down tight as she could for a tourniquet. 

Mycroft was gasping, dizzy and in agony. He saw Donovan, herself bleeding from her side, kneel with John next to Greg. Everyone on the scene was responding to the emergency but neither Sherlock nor Andrea would let him get up and go to his soulmate. "If you don't stay still, sir, you're going to bleed to death before an ambulance can get here," Andrea snapped.

"Greg is hurt!" Mycroft groaned. "Let me go to him."

"John has him," Sherlock said, his voice shaking. "He'll take care of him. You need to stay still."

Time dilated and Mycroft couldn't focus through the pain and lightheadedness. Somewhere in the distance was the sound of approaching sirens, moving fast. As Mycroft tried to control the tears running down his face and the burning pain in his arm, he saw the gentle light of his soulmate flicker and go out.

An agonized cry tore itself from Mycroft's chest and he tried to fight the hands holding him down. He had to get to Greg. He had to touch him. The darkness couldn't be real.

Two ambulances rolled up and EMT teams burst out of them. Within minutes, Mycroft was on a stretcher in the back of one of them, someone working on his arm, and the vehicle was in motion, separating him from his beloved. 

Drugged, in shock, and sobbing, Mycroft passed out.

When he woke in hospital, Sherlock and Andrea were with him. Before he could say a word, Sherlock said, "Lestrade made it. He's in surgery right now. They revived him in the ambulance on the way in."

"Alive?" Mycroft rasped. Everything hurt. He was wired to monitors and IV tubes, with a transfusion dripping into him, and he was terrified. "Euros?"

"Dead at the scene."

"You're sure?" Mycroft whispered, desperate.

"Absolutely, sir." Andrea took his hand as Sherlock stood by the side of his bed.

"I made certain," Sherlock added. "As soon as we know anything at all about Lestrade's condition, we'll let you know."

Mycroft wept until he sank back into an exhausted sleep.


	21. The Last Light in the Heavens

Mycroft had visited Sherlock in critical care more than once in the past ten years. He knew the procedures; what was expected, what was allowed and what was not. He knew the pain of seeing someone he cared for smothered in tubes and wires. But seeing Gregory there, when Mycroft was in pain himself and recovering from having the length of his lower arm stitched up after a gunshot wound, was an emotional agony he hadn't been prepared for.

The light of his soulmate had gone out at that filthy crime scene at the foundry and, in that moment, Mycroft had wanted to die. Here, in this sterile room filled with quietly beeping equipment, that light had returned. It was weak, but there, and Mycroft clung to his hope with all his heart.

When the door opened Mycroft looked up, expecting one of the medical staff, given it was so late at night, but Sergeant Donovan entered, quiet and hesitant.

"Are you all right?" she asked, taking a seat by Mycroft's side.

Mycroft shifted in his chair, favoring his injured arm. "He's alive. I will be."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have been faster. I should--"

"Stop." Mycroft held up a hand. "You put yourself between Gregory and a bullet, at the risk of your own life. You disrupted my sister's second shot and directly and very obviously saved my life. You have _nothing_ to apologize for, and you have earned my gratitude." He rested his hand on her arm. "Thank you, Sergeant Donovan."

"Sally. It's Sally." She covered his hand and squeezed it for a moment.

Mycroft nodded. "Thank you, Sally."

"She was… god, how did you even survive your childhood, living with someone like that? Suddenly your brother makes more sense." She sighed. "He's still an annoying, arrogant cock, but it's more understandable now."

"I sincerely hope that my sister's death will allow us both to finally lay some very difficult things to rest." There would be so much aftermath, so many things that would still have to be dealt with. And their parents -- the idea of dealing with Mummy was overwhelming.

"If you need anything," Sally said, looking over at Greg's still form, "either of you -- anything at all that I can do -- you just let me know."

"You saved both our lives. If anything, I shall never be able to repay you."

"I don't need to be repaid. Greg's a great bloke; best boss I ever had. When you asked me to take care of him, at first I thought maybe it was some kind of overreaction, even though I could see you were scared. It's not that I didn't take it seriously, just… well… Sherlock's such a bloody drama queen, and I didn't know you at all and didn't know if you were as well."

Mycroft sighed, uncomfortable. "I will admit to having my own share of overly dramatic moments. I'm told that I can be overbearing when it comes to protecting those I care about." He looked up at her, assessing. "And I can certainly understand your belief that I was, perhaps, overstating the situation. As you can see, however…"

"Yeah." She nodded. "More like understatement. I'm shocked you didn't try to confine him to his office and just let him bitch about it. I don't know what I'd have done if I'd been faced with that kind of a situation -- that kind of a life."

"I feared… I feared that I would end up like her. That Sherlock would become like her. The madness, the disconnection from humanity." Mycroft shuddered.

Sally hesitated. "There was a time when I thought he would, too, but he's been changing. It's slow, but it's happening. He's not as awful as he was. He… he thinks a little more often before he says hurtful shite. And you? Oh, hell, no. You would never. Look how much you care about Greg. Look how much you _love_ him. What you did -- going for a shooter armed with a fucking _sword_ \-- that was brave. You didn't need to. You could have hid behind half a dozen people and nobody would have thought less of you. But you didn't. You fought for him. You would have died for him."

"Bravery," Mycroft murmured. "By far the kindest word for stupidity."

She reached out to him and laid one brown hand on his shoulder. He looked up and met her dark eyes. "Hey. None of that. Was saving Greg's life 'stupid'? Do you feel stupid for the fact that he's lying there breathing right now because of you?"

The night and the quiet beeping of the monitors in that dim room brought the reality of the whole situation down on Mycroft like a mountain on his shoulders. "No," he whispered. All he could feel was gratitude.

"There's your answer, then."

She left not long after that, with Mycroft still feeling raw and exposed as he sat alone, watching his soulmate breathe.

After a few hours of fitful napping in the chair by Greg's bedside, Mycroft was awakened by Sherlock's entrance. "John and your minion are with me. We're here to take you for breakfast, if you think you can eat. Regardless, you need to get out of that chair and move around a bit. She's also got some clean clothes for you, instead of the scrubs." Sherlock gestured toward the door.

Mycroft, aching from the chair and the pain in his arm, wobbled to his feet. He went to Greg and laid a gentle hand on his chest. "I'm leaving for a little while, Gregory. Sherlock, John, and Andrea are here. I shall be back as soon as I'm able." There was no response, and he'd expected none, but there was some chance that Greg would at least be able to hear his voice and to know he'd been there.

They left the room together, Sherlock's hand on Mycroft's shoulder, steadying him. They said nothing, but he knew Sherlock had never seen him like this, and that his brother had suddenly realized what Mycroft must have been like waiting at his own bedside during the overdoses in years past. "Mummy and father are on their way," Sherlock said, obviously holding something back. Mycroft shot him a look.

"There was a media leak onsite," Andrea told him as they walked. "In the chaos, one of the officers released information without authorization. It wasn't deliberate, but by the time we caught it, it was too late."

"They know." Mycroft's chest tightened with anxiety.

"We wanted to get some food into you before you had to deal with them," John said. "Low blood sugar's not good for stressful situations and from what Sherlock's said, this is likely to be--"

"Stressful," Sherlock concluded.

"You're not alone, Mycroft," Andrea said. "We're all here for you."

"I suspect Mummy is going to want to speak with me and Sherlock privately. This is a family matter." Mycroft had mixed feelings about anyone but Sherlock being there. It was private and he felt far too exposed as it was.

"If there are dragons to be slain--" Sherlock began.

"This is our mother, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "Dragons come in many shapes and sizes."

"You can't face her any more than I can, most of the time. She'll bulldoze both of us, and I shall undoubtedly take the blame for everything that's gone wrong since the day of my conception."

"She does have that tendency," Sherlock conceded.

"I'm shocked that you recognize that fact," Mycroft grumbled.

Mycroft was given a little time to change into actual clothing again. As they arrived at the hospital cafeteria Sherlock said, "I'm not your enemy in this, Mycroft. I shouldn't have been before. We will both be stronger if we stand together."

"A united front against our mother," Mycroft snorted. "I'd rather face Putin in nothing but my shorts. At least then I'd have a prayer of coming out of the situation intact."

Mummy was, entirely predictably-- and possibly justifiably, deeply upset. Her memories of her precious daughter were rose-tinted by time and a lack of knowledge of Euros's activities since her confinement in the hospital as a child. Sherlock, shockingly, did defend Mycroft much more stridently than he would ever have imagined. 

Sherlock's account of the night before and Mycroft's own injuries were not enough to make more than a microscopic dent in Mummy's picture of her darling, disturbed daughter. "If we'd known she was still alive, perhaps we could have helped her in some way!" she said, angry and stern.

"She was never capable of seeing others as human," Mycroft said. "She was barely able to see herself that way. She never understood the difference between pain and pleasure, between screams and laughter. It would never have been possible to salvage enough of her to bring her back into contact with the rest of humanity."

Even knowing Uncle Rudy had made all the initial decisions wasn't enough to deflect the blame she placed on Mycroft. "You kept up the deception. You could have told us at any time."

"And how would he have kept any of us safe if he'd tried to rehabilitate her?" Sherlock asked. "She killed Victor when she was six years old. She tried to kill me and Mycroft multiple times, going to the extent of _burning Musgrave to the ground_. Last night she nearly succeeded in murdering both Mycroft and his soulmate. If she hadn't died on the scene, she'd be working out a way to try again at this very moment."

"And from what you said, it was Mycroft who killed her. With a sword."

"She had just shot Gregory and was in the act of shooting me. What would you have had me do?" Mycroft demanded.

"You couldn't have tried to talk some sense into her?"

"She pulled a gun and started shooting!" Mycroft shouted, getting to his feet and leaving the room, with Sherlock at his heels and Mummy's voice trailing after them, piling on the recriminations. Neither of them walked out of the room without emotional scars, but Mycroft had expected far worse going in. Only the thought of his soulmate kept Mycroft whole, and he wanted more than anything to return to Gregory's side.

Hollow-eyed and shaking, Mycroft returned to the critical care ward, where he resumed his vigil by his soulmate's bedside. Sherlock stayed with him, holding his hand in mutual silence.

Two days later, Gregory returned to him.

His waking was slow and painful, but Mycroft stayed nearby as the medical team oversaw the removal of the tubes that had kept him breathing. Once they were satisfied and certain that Greg would wake naturally, they left Mycroft alone with him, holding his hand.

Mycroft spoke to him the entire time, nonsense and words of love, encouragement and reassurances of Greg's safety all falling from his lips. He was aware that Andrea lurked just outside, overhearing some of it, but nothing else mattered. Mycroft's reality was focused solely on Greg.

When his soulmate's dark brown eyes finally opened, Mycroft nearly wept. "Gregory," he whispered, squeezing his hand. "I missed you."

Greg's lips moved into a tiny smile. "Love you," he croaked, his throat rough and dry. Mycroft offered him the ice chips the medical team had left, letting him wet his throat.

"It's over. She's dead." Mycroft rang for the staff so they could examine Greg.

The day that Gregory returned home from hospital was, Mycroft though, the happiest of his life. Greg's recovery would take time, but he was safe now, and back in Mycroft's arms. They would both bear the scars, physical and emotional, of their experience, but they would bear them together. Mycroft was back at work already, and Greg was expected to be able to return to the Met within a couple of months for a stint of light duty before being once again released into the wild.

Mycroft had distanced himself from his parents, but the experience had sobered Sherlock in a very literal fashion. He'd had to cooperate with the other DIs, which had cast his relationship with Greg into stark contrast. "When you're back, we'll need to go over cold cases together," Sherlock insisted.

Greg shrugged. "I'll be on desk duty for a while, so I don't see why not, once I'm caught up on what I've missed."

"Boredom," Sherlock said. "Weeks and weeks of utter boredom. I hadn't realized just how much I depended upon your desperation and lack of ego to keep me entertained."

"Dimmock having you on?"

"Dimmock not having me at all," Sherlock grumbled.

John laughed. "None of them will put up with him waltzing into their offices at all hours demanding cases."

"Told you you needed to appreciate me more," Greg said.

"I do already. Tiresome. When can you go back?"

"Not before his doctors release him, brother mine. I won't have him overextending himself on your behalf." Mycroft set the wine bottle and four glasses on the dining table in the London flat. "While you are doing far better at managing your boredom, I will not allow you to do him any harm." He narrowed his eyes. "Remember what happened to the other one."

"Your Bond villain impression needs work," Sherlock said. 

"I suppose I should get an Angora cat, should it meet with Gregory's approval. I'm sure it would improve my veracity." He poured the wine into the glasses and passed them around the table.

John raised a glass. "To Greg, and a speedy recovery."

"To Greg," Sherlock and Mycroft echoed, raising their glasses as well.

After they drank, and after John and Sherlock had departed, Mycroft and Greg made their way slowly into the lounge, where a warm fire had been laid on. Mycroft helped Greg sit comfortably and wrapped him in one of the blankets, curling up next to him.

"I hope," Mycroft said, taking Greg into his arms, heart pounding, "that you will not think it too forward of me at this juncture to ask for your hand in marriage."

Greg laughed. "Too forward? God, Mycroft, I'd have said yes ages ago if you'd asked."

"I thought you might have been a bit gunshy, so to speak, after your divorce."

Greg leaned in carefully and kissed him. "Maybe a little, but you're not Karen, and both of our lives are different now. I love you, and I'm not afraid of that anymore, the way I was at first. I'll marry you, Mycroft, happily. God knows there's a lot to talk about before we set a date, but I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want to wake up next to you every morning. I want to get old with you."

Mycroft kissed Greg back, holding him close, basking in his soulmate's presence and reveling in the glow that he thought he'd lost forever. "I wish to be with you until the last light in the heavens dies, and to walk with you into the darkness beyond."

"Bloody romantic," Greg chuckled.

Mycroft grinned. "Eternally yours."


End file.
